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THE HIGH STAKES RESCUE
DISASTER CITY SEARCH AND RESCUE
JENNA BRANDT
 COPYRIGHT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Locale and public names are sometimes
used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, or
actual locations is purely coincidental. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written
permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and
certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email jenna@
jennabrandt.com.

Text copyright © Jenna Brandt 2023.

Cover copyright by Jenna Brandt

 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9

A Note from the Author

Sneak Peek of Arresting Her Heart
Sneak Peek of Rescue Agent for Dana
Also by Jenna Brandt/Jennifer Branson
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Join My Mailing List and Reader’s Groups
 PRAISE FOR JENNA BRANDT

I am always excited when I see a new book by Jenna Brandt.

— LORI DYKES, AMAZON CUSTOMER

Jenna Brandt is, in my estimation, the most gifted author of Christian fiction in this generation!
— PAULA ROSE MICHELSON, FELLOW AUTHOR

Ms. Brandt writes from the heart and you can feel it in every page turned.
— SANDRA SEWELL WHITE, LONGTIME READER

For more information about Jenna Brandt visit her on any of her websites.

Signup for Jenna Brandt’s Newsletter

Visit her on Social Media:

www.JennaBrandt.com
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hwww.twitter.com/JennaDBrandt
http://www.instagram.com/Jennnathewriter
 Dedicated to
my husband, Dustin, Badge #5654,
who inspired me to create this series.
You’re not only my heart and soul,
but my own personal lawkeeper.
 1

F irst Sergeant Marco Fernandez was born in a small town in the heart of Texas, and hadn't stepped
foot in the state in over twelve years. Even after all of the time he was gone, his hometown of
Woody hadn't changed much in his absence.
He glanced down at his watch and quickened his pace. If he didn't hurry up, he was going to be
late for his first day at his new job at Disaster City Search and Rescue. He'd stopped by the local café
for a cup of coffee to give himself a much-needed jolt of energy. As he was rushing out, he felt a crash
and heard a thud.
Suddenly, he was surrounded by an aromatic cloud of coffee and a flurry of activity. He steadied
himself, only to find he had bumped into a tall, willowy woman, spilling coffee all over both of them.
The raven-haired beauty squealed in surprise and began to frantically brush herself off, her
caramel eyes wide with a combination of shock and rage. "You imbecile," she snapped, her voice
sharp and angry. "Do you have any idea how important today is for me? I have an interview with the
mayor, and I need it to go perfectly."
Marco felt a wave of guilt wash over him, but he also bristled at her tone. "I'm sure it's not as
important as my first day at work," he shot back. "You should be more careful."
The middle-aged woman rolled her eyes and let out a loud huff. “Me? You’re the one who brought
a dog in here with you, who actually caused the crash in the first place.”
“I hardly doubt that. Nomad is trained to be in public places,” Marco challenged, knowing that in
no way was any of this his K9 partner’s fault.
“Yeah, well, now I'm going to have to change my outfit. I was hoping to make a good impression,
and now I'm going to be late."
Marco wanted to apologize, but he was already running late and needed to get moving. He
grabbed his coffee cup off the floor and began to walk away, but not before he heard her mutter
something disrespectful under her breath.
He couldn't help but turn around and give her a dirty look, irritated that she couldn't see how all of
this was her fault. She was still standing there, watching him with an incredulous expression. He
mocked her with a fake-smile and gave her a small wave before he quickly turned and strode off
down the street.
After the adrenaline of the situation wore off, he couldn't help but feel a little ashamed of himself.
It wasn't like him to be so impolite, but he chalked it up to stress. What did it matter, anyway? It
wasn't like he was ever going to see the woman again.
As he climbed out of his red F-150 truck and looked out across the Disaster City Search and
Rescue Academy campus, his chocolate eyes narrowed as he licked his lips, not sure what to do with
the flurry of odd sensations coursing through him. On the one hand, he was excited about the new
opportunity, and on the other, it felt surreal being back in his home state. Running his hand through his
dark brown hair, he let out a heavy sigh, sent up a silent prayer for everything to go well, and
mustered the courage to go and check in with his new boss.
His canine partner, Nomad, must have noticed the tension in Marco's body. He barked softly, then
leaned against his partner's leg reassuringly.
Absentmindedly, Marco reached down and patted the golden retriever's head. "I know it's scary
starting over here, Nomad, but it's for the best." The words sounded hollow even to his own ears, and
he doubted his partner believed them any more than he did. "I was getting too old for that life," he
stated with a roll of his shoulders, the audible pop from his right arm only confirming his statement.
He couldn't even remember how many dislocated shoulders, broken bones, and head wounds he's
sustained over the years. Add to that the lack of a stable home life, and he knew he was making the
right decision. Once he got himself situated at the academy, he hoped he could finally settle down and
make a life for himself like the one his parents had.
They'd been hard-working Mexican immigrants who had come to the United States looking for a
better future for their family. They'd taken on various jobs until they were able to save up enough and
start their own farm. Growing up, Marco was a bright and determined young man and decided at a
young age he wanted to help people, becoming an Eagle Scout and volunteering at his local church.
But those small acts of service weren't enough for him. He decided he wanted to do more.
At seventeen, Marco decided to enlist in the United States Army. After going through basic
training in North Carolina, Marco was even more determined to serve his country and volunteered for
the Army Ranger School at Fort Benning, Georgia.
The first few weeks of Ranger School were challenging for him, but he persevered and soon
began excelling. As his instructors began to notice how passionate and dedicated he was to the job,
they gave him extra assignments and challenges that pushed him even further outside of his comfort
zone. Despite the grueling workload, Marco remained focused on completing each task with
excellence and proving himself as a capable soldier.
At the end of Ranger School, Marco graduated with honors and was deployed to Iraq, where he
served in various roles, including that of a sniper, a scout, and a point man. He quickly gained a
reputation as one of the most reliable, capable, and fearless soldiers in his unit, earning him the
respect of his superiors and peers. But after five years of service, he knew something was missing.
That's when he made the decision to switch his focus. The first time he saw a soldier work with
his canine partner, he knew that it was his calling. Marco's uncanny ability to bond with his canine
partners made him stand out, and he quickly moved up the ranks and became one of the best canine
handlers in the Army. This led to him being chosen for a top-secret program to train special operation
force dogs for the Rangers. The program was extensive and difficult, but Marco passed with flying
colors. After completing the program, he was assigned to a unit of Army Rangers sent to Afghanistan.
His job was to lead his canine partners in search and rescue missions.
For the next decade, Marco and his various canine partners traveled around Afghanistan,
searching for missing personnel and saving lives. Marco and his partners were successful in every
mission they took on, and eventually were credited with saving over a hundred lives.
When he returned state-side, a golden retriever puppy entered Marco’s life back at the Army
Ranger training facility. He named the puppy Nomad, and after months of working together every day,
he became the perfect partner, giving Marco the perfect finish to a twenty-year career.
 By the end of his time with the Army, Marco was awarded a number of medals for his bravery
and service and was honorably discharged. Marco and Nomad had quickly become famous in the
search and rescue community as word of their success spread. It wasn't long after their retirement that
they were asked to join the Disaster City Search and Rescue team.
"Come on, boy, I guess we should go inside and see what's up," Marco said with a nod of his head
toward the academy's headquarters.
As they stepped through the front door, a familiar face appeared—Sergeant Dylan Burke, who
was an ex-Army Ranger who had served overseas with Marco, and Officer Sean West, a sheriff’s
deputy from the same hometown as Marco.
The two men couldn't contain their excitement as they rushed to greet their old friend.
"Marco," Burke exclaimed, clapping him on the back in celebration of his arrival. "It's so good to
see you."
"You, too," Marco replied with a wide grin.
"Welcome home," West added, giving Marco a bear hug.
"It's good to be back," Marco said with a smile as he pulled away and settled on his heels with
his muscular arms folded across his thick chest. He watched as his and Sean's golden retrievers and
Dylan's German shepherd circled each other for a couple of seconds, sniffing each other to determine
if they were foes or friends. When they settled back down at their partners' sides, it seemed like they
were content to co-exist.
"Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd end up working with you here at Disaster City," West
stated with a shake of his head.
"I was surprised myself when the job opened up, and I got it. I never planned on living a half-hour
away from my hometown," Marco stated.
"Just promise me you won't tell Courtney about any of our wild antics in our youth. She’s already
afraid I’m going to be a bad influence on the baby,” West pleaded with a worried look on his face.
"She thinks she knows everything, but there's no way she does."
"Your secrets are safe with me," Marco assured his friend. "It'll be great to catch up with the old
gang. I guess that means James is still in Woody, too?"
West nodded. "He's there, still running the family farm."
"And Courtney's some big, famous pop singer now, right?" Marco probed with curiosity.
His friend nodded a second time. "It seems you've been keeping up on all of us pretty well. I bet
that means you know that Courtney is taking some time off from touring after having the baby, and that
I made up with the rest of the West family.”
“It sure does. How is that after all these years?” Marco probed.
“I have to admit, it’s pretty awesome. I have a whole trio of brothers and a sister after being
basically an only child most of my life,” West admitted.
“How about you? How have things been since your parents passed away?” West questioned with
concern.
“Oh, you know how I am. Nothing bothers me,” Marco stated with a shrug. “Besides, my life is
pretty boring compared to yours.”
“Should I be flattered? You seem to be borderline stalking me with all you know about my life,”
West teased.
“What can I say? Not a lot to do with my spare time," Marco stated with a shrug. "Not a lot of
spare time, come to think of it."
"Isn't that how it always is as an Army Ranger?" Burke asked with an arch of his eyebrow. "No
day off, no layoff," he chuckled.
"That's true, which is why I decided at my age, it was time I retired. Twenty years was enough for
me," Marco explained.
"I'm just glad to have a fellow Army Ranger to back me up," Burke stated with an approving nod.
"Ouch, and here I thought I was your number one backup," West stated with a slap against his own
chest as if he had been wounded.
"A man can have two," Burke teased with a mischievous grin.
"Are we talking about work wives again or real ones this time?" Bilmont, a large man with dark
brown skin, asked as he approached the group.
"Don't act like you don't have both now, yourself," West challenged. "We've all met Brenda."
Bilmont’s cheeks darkened with embarrassment and he shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Okay,
so, now I'm officially moving on and leaving you to show the newbie around on your own." With that,
Bilmont spun around and took off before anyone could object.
After Bilmont had left, West and Burke began to show Marco and Nomad around their
headquarters. They began with the cafeteria, which was bustling with activity as everyone had just
finished the first part of the day just in time for lunch.
"Welcome to the cafeteria, the hub of our activity," West shouted over the noise, gesturing to the
various cooks serving up meals from behind the metal counters.
Burke cut in. "They offer a different menu every day, along with standard items like sandwiches
and chips you can grab at any time the cafeteria is open."
They moved on to the next building, which housed the classrooms.
"As you can see, they come equipped with computers and the latest learning tools,” West
explained, pointing out a few computers and apparatuses scattered around the room.
The group moved on to the auditorium, where one of the classes for a different division was
watching a clip from some of the training exercises previously conducted. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
Burke asked with awe in his voice.
"This is also where graduation happens at the end of every month," West added.
Then they entered the veterinarian hospital, followed by the medical center where any of the staff
could get medical care for any injuries or illnesses. “And here is where we take special care for our
service animals like military search dogs,” Burke exclaimed, gazing at the attentive doctors and vet
techs taking care of their furry patients.
The next stop was to tour the kennels, which were available for any of the handlers to use for their
partners. "The kennels are great for when you have a doctor's appointment," West pointed out.
"Or a hot date," Burke added, then his eyes rounded as he shook his head. "Not that I would know
anything about that since I'm happily married to my wife, Jillian."
"Good recovery," Marco teased with a chuckle. "Good thing I don't know your wife yet; I'd hate to
have to lie to her if she asked me how our first day together went."
"It wouldn't be anything new to her. My wife is fully aware that I put my foot in my mouth all the
time," Burke stated with a snort and roll of his eyes.
Marco followed his friends around, feeling an increasing sense of pride with each step. He was
amazed by the high standard of professionalism, the efficient use of space, and the attention given to
details in providing for everyone's well-being.
The next stop on their tour was of the living quarters, which provided housing for personnel and
their families, as well as dorms for students. After he was given the keys to his townhouse, they made
their way to the training field, where recruits practiced their combat drills and practiced maneuvers
for upcoming missions. It was here that Marco got his first glimpse at what life would be like in this
elite force.
As they arrived back at the headquarters, Marco felt a wave of excitement wash over him,
knowing this would be his new home.
"This place is impressive," Marco said after seeing all that the campus had to offer. "I made the
right decision in joining your team here."
"Good. After meeting with the commander, why don't you head to your new place and get settled
in," West suggested. "You can join us for dinner tonight with our wives."
"That would be nice," Marco stated with a nod, eager to get to know the women who managed to
get two of his closest friends to settle down after years of bachelorhood.
"Let us know if there's anything else we can do to help," Burke offered before guiding Marco over
to the commander’s office for his official welcoming meeting.
After signing a few forms and getting briefed on protocol, Marco was officially part of the team.
He couldn't help but feel grateful for such an incredible opportunity and was eager to get settled in
and start working.
Even though he had the support of his friends, he wasn’t sure it was going to be enough to help
him make the transition from military life. It had been all he’d known for over twenty years, and he
wasn’t sure if he could make the adjustment well. Silently, he sent up a prayer, asking God to help
him. Marco knew he couldn’t do it without His help.
 2

S usan Chandler, a local investigative reporter, was determined to get every ounce of detail she
needed to make her feature on the Disaster City Search and Rescue Academy the best article out
there. She had been working on the background of the story for weeks, and today, her hard work was
about to pay off when she entered their headquarters for the first time.
“Lord, help me to make this the best story of my life,” she whispered, sending up a heartfelt plea
for help. “I need this story to be the one to get me to the next level.”
From the moment she had gotten the assignment, Susan knew this story was going to be something
special and was her ticket to the big leagues. For over a decade, she'd been treading water at one
low-level newspaper in the middle of nowhere after the other, waiting for her big break. Her parents
had told her for years that print media was a dying industry and that she should switch to online media
or television, but there was something in her that just wouldn't let her give up on being a traditional
newspaper reporter. Maybe it was from all the years of idolizing Lois Lane while she was growing
up, but she had to see this through and hope this story was going to be the one that finally made her
career take off.
Susan had always been a bit of a trailblazer, wearing power pantsuits that emphasized her tall
frame. Matched with her spunky smile and determined spirit, she'd been smart enough to figure out
early that people would underestimate her because of her gender and good looks. She used that to her
advantage whenever possible and didn't shy away from it. Now, she had a chance to make a real
difference, and she was determined to make the most of it no matter what it took.
With a deep breath, Susan pushed back her shoulders and threw open the doors to the academy's
headquarters, swinging her raven locks of hair over her shoulder in the process. She marched in and
headed for the half-moon-shaped desk at the front of the room, ready to take on every one of the male
chauvinist officers that got in her way.
She was greeted first by the heavy smell of dog, followed by a gruff, "Can I help you?"
Turning around, Susan couldn't believe her eyes. There, standing in front of her, was the rude guy
from the café in Woody with a deep frown that made it clear he recognized her, too. He was just as
good-looking as the first time she saw him, with his tall, muscular frame and chiseled face, but today
he was wearing a crisp blue cargo uniform with "DCSR" on one side and the name "Fernandez" on
the other. He was standing there with his hands on his hips, glaring at her with a scowl that looked
like it could burn the paint off the walls. But it was his K9 partner, a yellow Lab, that caught her eye
and helped her not to fall over right on the spot. She recognized the dog from the café, and he was as
friendly and eager as ever, seemingly pleased to see her again, completely the opposite of his handler.
 Susan bent down to pet the dog, but the rude officer snapped out his arm to stop her, saying,
“Don’t touch him. He’s a working dog.”
She knew that. How stupid of her to even try, but she was so off-kilter from unexpectedly running
into the rude officer that she wasn’t thinking straight. Deciding to ignore what just happened, she
stood up and said instead, "I'm here to report on the academy for an exposé. Can you show me to the
deputy commander’s office, please?” her voice wavering only slightly as she pushed out the words.
She decided it was best if she didn’t bring up the incident from the café, since she already seemed to
be on thin ice with the officer. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to deal with him much after he showed
her where she needed to go.
The rude officer studied her for a beat before nodding in understanding. "Follow me," he said
curtly. "I'll take you to the deputy commander's office. He's expecting you." He escorted her through a
winding path of hallways and rooms. After a few minutes, they arrived at the back corner of the
building. He opened the door, saying, "Go ahead and go inside."
"Fernandez, why don't you come on in here, too?" his deputy commander requested, though it was
clear from his tone there was no room to refuse.
They both entered the room, where a man with a graying head of hair and fine lines on his face sat
behind a desk. "Right on time, Miss Chandler. Please, take a seat," he said, gesturing to the chair in
front of the desk. "You, too, Fernandez."
Susan nodded and took a seat, keenly aware of the tension between Fernandez and his
commander. She noticed that the other man didn't take a seat, but instead moved to a spot behind her
and leaned against the counter. He crossed his feet at the ankles and his arms over his chest, making it
clear he didn't want to be there. It didn't matter to her one bit; the feeling was mutual as far as she was
concerned.
Glancing around the room, she noticed the various awards and certificates of achievement hanging
on the walls. Deputy Commander York was every bit as decorated as represented on the internet and
then some.
"So," the deputy commander began, a stoic expression remaining on his face as he continued. "I
was just about to give you an orientation about this academy, its goals, objectives, and programs,
Miss Chandler."
Even though Susan had done a ton of research about the place, she knew it was important to hear
the commander's point of view to round out her story. Susan settled into her chair and waited patiently
for him to go through the information.
The deputy commander went on to describe the structured environment and how that provided the
necessary discipline for preparing trainees to be successful search and rescue K9 handlers. He went
over their state-of-the-art equipment and training grounds, well knowledgeable instructors, ethics
codes for students and staff, day-to-day operations/expectations, and skills developed through
exposure to real-world events. He explained what type of knowledge recruits would acquire at the
academy, such as tactics involving psychology theory, emotional control techniques used during
conflicts, and procedures used while executing effective search and rescues safely.
Despite all of her own research, it hadn't even grazed the service of the detail the commander just
gave her. "I appreciate the information," she stated with a grateful nod. "This gives me a great place
to start my article."
"Look, D.C., I appreciate the recap on the academy's history, but I have a lot to do before my first
class arrives this week. Is there a reason you asked me to stay?" Fernandez inquired from behind her,
reminding her that he had been quietly standing there observing them this whole time.
 "Yes, I do have a reason, Fernandez," Deputy Commander York snapped out. "I need you to show
Miss Chandler around the facility."
"Me?" the instructor yelped out in disbelief as his eyes widened in shock. "I'm not sure how good
of a job I can do since I just barely got here myself."
"Well, the rest of the staff has other more pressing matters to attend to, so as my most junior
instructor, you're going to take on this task," Deputy Commander York ordered. "The commander
wants this handled quickly and efficiently, and we heard that you were good with the press when you
were with the Rangers."
"The Rangers, as in Army Rangers?" Susan jotted down the information in her notepad, making a
note to herself to research Fernandez later, her curiosity about the gruff instructor growing by the
minute. His name hadn’t come up during any of her research, and now that she knew he was new to
DCSR, she knew why.
"Yes, that's right," Fernandez stated with a huff. "But it doesn't matter. I'm new here, and I would
think someone from the team with more experience should show you around," Fernandez objected
further.
The deputy commander shook his head and slammed his fist on the desk. "No, and before you
complain again, let me be clear, if this doesn't go well, it can and will directly speak to your position
here at the academy."
"Great, just what I need," Fernandez grumbled under his breath.
"What was that?" the deputy commander asked with an arch of his eyebrow.
Fernandez pressed his lips together and shoved off the counter. "Nothing, D.C. I'll give Miss
Chandler a tour right now."
"Good, and afterward, send me an email with the details of how it went."
"Yes, D.C.," Fernandez said with a brisk nod. "Come on, let's go," he added, turning his attention
to Susan.
"Okay, where are we going to start?" she asked, slipping her messenger bag over her shoulder as
she stood.
"Well, I just went through the tour myself a few days ago, so it's pretty fresh. I think I'll just repeat
it with you," he informed her as he headed down the hallway. "Then we can be done with this whole
thing and move on."
"You can be done with it, but I'll be back tomorrow to start my shadowing," she told him with an
ecstatic smile.
"Your what?" he asked in confusion.
"Shadowing. My boss arranged with the commander for me to follow around a team while they
train and handle search and rescue cases."
"Missions, or assignments. They're never called cases," Fernandez corrected. “That’s an FBI
thing.”
"Noted," she said, writing down the distinction in her notepad. "Is there anything else I should
know?" she asked as she looked up over the edge of her book at the handsome instructor. And even
though she didn't want to admit it, that's exactly what he was--unarguably handsome. From his fit form
to his thick brown hair and matching eyes, his gruff demeanor couldn't erase how good-looking he
was.
"Nothing from my end, but I hope you don't plan on trying to spin this into a negative exposé,"
Fernandez growled in a warning tone as they made their way out of the building. “I know that’s how a
lot of you reporters do it to get more clicks on your link once your articles go live."
 Susan was offended by the suggestion. "I'll have you know, I would never do that. I deeply respect
any organization willing to commit resources, time, and energy toward helping young adults become
upstanding citizens willing to help others in need."
"Wow, you sound like someone selling something on an infomercial," Fernandez said with a roll
of his eyes. "Just so you know, I don't buy it. I've seen reporters change their tune when it benefits
them."
Susan stopped walking and placed her hands on her hips defiantly. "That isn't me," she stated
firmly as he turned to face her. "I value my integrity above all else. I won't report something if it isn't
true, and I won't bend the truth to make it look like something it isn't."
Fernandez tilted his head to the side, analyzing her and her answer. After a couple of moments, he
shrugged. "We'll see." It wasn't more than a couple of beats later that he guided her into the center of
the headquarters and explained what happened in the building.
She glanced down at the golden Lab beside Fernandez and asked, "Does your K9 partner follow
you everywhere?"
The instructor's eyes drifted down to his partner as if confused, then nodded. "It's what Nomad's
trained to do. He's supposed to heel and stay by my side until I give him the command to search."
"Always?"
"When we're on duty, yes. However, when we're on break or not on shift, I give him the cue that
he's off-duty, and he can relax."
"Impressive," Susan stated as she jotted down the information. "Such incredible training," she
murmured in awe. "Does Nomad ever make a mistake and react like he's on-duty or vice versa?"
"Not since he was a puppy," Fernandez said with pride. "I made sure of that."
"You've had Nomad since he was a puppy?" Susan asked with surprise, adding the background
information to her notes.
He nodded. "I've had the privilege of training my last five K9 partners myself."
"Again, that's impressive," she said, realizing that he might be just the hook she wanted for her
story. "Do you mind if I ask you some questions?"
"About the academy?" he asked with a raise of his eyebrows.
"No, about your background. I plan to feature several instructors and trainees to flesh out my
feature," she explained with enthusiasm. "I'd like you to be one of them."
"I'd rather not," Fernandez told her flatly. "But there are plenty of other instructors that I'm sure
would be more than happy to be in your article."
Susan tried to hide her disappointment and not take it personally. It wasn't the first time she got
told ‘no,’ and she just needed to focus on what she could control. "All right, then, let's keep going
with the tour." She wasn't about to let this stubborn and guarded ex-Army Ranger get in her way.
She’d just find another way to make her story great.
 3

M arco was in a rotten mood, but he was doing his best to keep it from showing. Being the
reporter's babysitter was the last thing he wanted to do, but here he was, guiding her from one
location to the next, all the while playing tour guide. He'd been preparing all week for his class, and
the last thing he needed was a distraction, no matter how attractive she was. And he had to admit,
Miss Chandler was downright gorgeous with her honey-colored eyes, silky black locks, and svelte
frame. It was all he could do not to stumble over his feet from sneaking glances at her.
He also tried to remind himself that it wasn't the reporter's fault he got saddled with showing her
around. Marco was the new kid on the block, and they were making him pay his dues. He got it, but it
didn't mean he had to like it.
The tour was supposed to continue through the main buildings, but Marco was too impatient and
immediately led her to his classroom. He plopped down behind his desk, figuring he could kill two
birds with one stone by going through emails while she looked around the place.
He was deep into his third one when he heard Miss Chandler say from behind him, "There doesn't
seem to be anything too important in here. Can we move on to a different area?"
Letting out a heavy sigh, he turned off his computer and stood up. "I guess I can show you the
kennels and veterinarian hospital next." They continued on the tour, with Marco reluctantly pointing
out the bare minimum points of interest. He could tell Susan wasn't thrilled with the job he was doing,
but he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to care. All he wanted to do was to get the tour done
and hand her off to the next person she got to annoy.
"What's next?" she asked with enthusiasm.
"The cafeteria," Marco told her as he guided her inside the large building in the center of the
campus. He was extremely relieved to see that it was almost empty, aside from a few of his fellow
instructors. He quickly noticed that they were giving Susan more attention than necessary, but she
didn't seem to notice it.
Instead, she said, "That last part was incredible. I had no idea your facility was sporting such top-
notch equipment."
"The staff at the academy has worked really hard to fundraise enough money to cover the gap
between what the state provides and what we need," he explained as they walked through the
cafeteria.
"I didn't know that," Miss Chandler murmured as she wrote down the information. "What kind of
fundraisers?"
"Our most successful was 'win a date with a handler' contest," John Lee, one of Marco's fellow
instructors, told her as he came up to them with a flirtatious smile plastered on his lips. "I went for
one of the highest amounts, I might add."
Marco could tell Lee was trying to flirt with her, and he felt a slight twinge of jealousy come out
of nowhere. He pushed back the unexpected and unwanted feeling the best he could, and reminded
himself that he was there for one purpose--to do his job. As soon as he was done showing Miss
Chandler around like he was assigned to do, he could move on.
"Is that so?" Miss Chandler asked with a bit of surprise in her voice as she looked Lee up and
down. She didn't seem impressed, simply asking, "And what's your name, for the record? You realize
I have to confirm this before I can put it in my article."
"John Lee, I was a forest ranger before I took my position here at the academy," he explained.
"And you can confirm anything you want. Over dinner, if you’re interested," he offered.
Miss Chandler gave him a polite smile but didn't bite at the invitation. "I can just as easily
confirm the details with your deputy commander. Thank you."
"Suit yourself," Lee said with a shrug before sauntering off to join a group of instructors by one of
the windows. A few of them looked their way, clearly curious about the attractive raven-haired
beauty, but no one else came their way.
To his relief, Susan didn't address what happened but instead turned to Marco and asked, “Shall
we move on to the next area?”
He nodded in agreement and led the way out of the cafeteria. As they walked, Marco made sure to
keep a respectable distance between them so as not to give anyone the wrong idea. It did, however,
allow a couple of other instructors to stop them along the way. He was relieved when she seemed
uninterested in their advances, though he knew it shouldn't matter to him.
By the time they reached the training grounds, Marco had already forgotten about the other
instructors. His focus shifted toward showing her how they set up different scenarios for their
trainees. He gestured around enthusiastically as he explained each area and described what every
piece of equipment did, making sure to emphasize how much progress had been accomplished in the
field.
"I would have never guessed you were so new to the facility," Miss Chandler told him with an
impressed smile. “This is the first time you’ve actually seemed interested in anything we’ve done
together.”
"That's because I might be new to this facility, but not the job. I've been a K9 handler for fifteen
years with the Army, and it was what I was born to do."
“Can I quote you on that?” she asked as she jotted down his words.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt anything,” he stated with a shrug. “But I don’t really see a reason for
you to include it.”
"And full of modesty on top of being capable," she stated with an approving nod. "I guess they
picked the right guy to give me this tour, after all."
He averted his eyes as he shoved his hands in his pockets, uncomfortable with the compliment.
"Well, that about does it for the tour," he explained as they headed back to the main part of the
campus.
"Wait, I read during my research that a majority of the staff and all of the trainees live at the
facility. Did we miss the living quarters?"
Marco shook his head. "There's nothing special about the dorms and staff living quarters."
“I’ll be the one to judge that,” she told him assertively. “Can you please take me there?”
He knew there was no point in arguing with the obstinate reporter. Reluctantly, he took her over to
the last area of the facility.
“How many floors are in the dorms?” she inquired.
“Six. Four for men and two for women,” he explained.
“And how many townhomes and cottages for the staff?” she probed.
“A dozen townhomes for single instructors, and six cottages for instructors with families.”
“So, you have a townhome?” she asked as she looked around. “Which one is yours?”
“Why do you assume I have a townhome?” he questioned with a skeptical look on his face.
She gestured to his hand. “No wedding ring. I assumed you were single.”
“A lot of officers don’t wear wedding rings because of the danger,” he pointed out.
“Okay, so are you married?” she asked, causing him to wonder if she was asking more for her
article or herself.
“Not married,” he stated in a clipped tone, without giving any more information. Even though he
found Miss Chandler attractive, he didn’t have time to indulge his impulses by pursuing anything with
her. He had his hands full with his new job.
“So, which one is yours?” she asked a second time.
Marco stiffened, not sure if he wanted to divulge where he lived. Then realizing he was being
silly, he pointed to his place. “That one’s mine.”
“Can I see it?”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise as he folded his arms over his chest defensively. “No, you can’t
see it,” he told her, uncomfortable with how she seemed to have no issue with overstepping someone
else’s boundaries.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” she told him with a pensive frown. “I forget,
sometimes, to filter my questions. Never mind. I can request to see an empty one from the deputy
commander.”
That made Marco stiffen with dread. He knew his boss would be mad that he denied her request.
He supposed he could let her inside, especially since he’d hardly had any time to take any personal
effects out of their boxes. “You know what, I can show you my townhome really quick,” he told her,
pulling his keys out of his pocket.
Marco nervously unlocked the door to his townhome and stepped aside as Susan went in. She
looked around curiously, taking in the few photos of Marco with his friends from the Army, as well as
the neat stacks of boxes still sitting around.
“So this is home,” she said softly, a hint of disappointment in her voice as her fingers trailed
along the back of the couch. “It looks…cozy.”
He could tell she was being polite, but it wasn’t like him to pull any punches. “I know. It doesn’t
look lived in. I haven’t had time to make it my own, yet, but I plan to work on it after my first class
graduates successfully.”
“It’s okay. I totally get that. I’ve moved around a lot for my job, always trying to make a name for
myself with the right newspaper.”
Marco felt himself relax a bit at that, knowing she wasn’t here to judge him or his place of
residence. He smiled and nodded before calling out, “Come here, Nomad.” His K9 partner came
trotting over happily to the kitchen, barking once for a treat. When his partner barked again, Marco
chuckled and bent down to give Nomad one from the jar he kept handy on the countertop.
Susan watched with interest as Nomad eagerly gobbled up his treat before looking back up at
Marco expectantly. She laughed and slowly reached out her hand. “Here, can I give him one?”
“Sure,” Marco said, giving her the container.
 She pulled a treat out and reached out to Nomad, who quickly snatched it from her hand and
nearly swallowed it whole. She leaned down and gave him a quick scratch behind his ears, which the
canine seemed to enjoy as he leaned into it.
“He seems to like you,” Marco commented with surprise, impressed by how comfortable Susan
was with his K9 partner.
She gave him a friendly smile as she continued petting Nomad before looking back at Marco. “I
grew up with dogs, so I feel right at home with him,” she explained casually. “If I had more free time,
I would have gotten my own K9 companion a long time ago; they just make everything better
somehow, don't they?”
Marco couldn't help but agree with that sentiment wholeheartedly as he watched Nomad doze off
contently under Susan's gentle caresses. He felt touched that someone who barely knew him could
take such an interest in his furry best friend, causing his heart to soften toward her a little bit.
"I just want to thank you for your time," she told him with a warm smile. An overwhelming feeling
of contentment washed over him; it was nice to know that someone appreciated his hard work after
such a long day. "I could tell it wasn't what you wanted to do, but I appreciate it nonetheless." She
reached out her hand to him and waited for him to take it.
“Of course, it was no problem, Miss Chandler,” Marco said as he took her hand and shook it.
"You can call me Susan, since I'm sure we'll be seeing each other around while I'm working on my
article," she told him, her dimples pulling him in and causing a lump to form in his throat.
He was unable to form words and tried to ignore the pulse of electricity that shot up his arm from
where their hands touched. He wasn't sure what to make of it, and just as quickly as it happened, it
disappeared when she removed her hand, almost as if it never happened.
"Marco," he blurted out, almost shocking himself as much as her. "You can call me Marco."
“Okay, then, Marco, that wasn't so hard, was it? It only took me all day, but I finally got you to
relax around me," she teased.
Was that what this was? Relaxed? It sure didn't feel like it. As a matter of fact, it felt just the
opposite, like every nerve-ending in his body was about to burst into flames at any moment.
The humor dissolved from her face, and her eyes flickered from his hand to his face and back
again, almost as if she finally realized what was going on. Licking her lips, she quickly averted her
eyes, adding, "I should be going. We both have another long day ahead of us."
"Good night, Susan," he said, as he walked with her to the door.
"Good night, Marco," she said in return over her shoulder as she exited the townhome. "See you
tomorrow."
Marco couldn't help but notice how gracefully she moved or the way the lingering light from the
setting sun illuminated her features. He found himself wishing he had gotten to know her better during
their brief time together, rather than pushing her away at every opportunity. Still, he reminded himself
again he didn't need a distraction right now. He needed to focus on his new job and prove he
deserved to be on the team.
With a sigh, Marco locked up his place and returned to his office to go over his lesson plans for
the first week. As he worked through the evening hours, he had to force himself to keep his mind from
drifting back to the reporter and her irresistible charm.
"What's wrong with you, Marco? She's just a woman," he grumbled to himself. "Get over it."
Nomad barked beside him, letting his partner know he agreed.
"Yeah, what's your problem? She was clearly in to me," Marco heard Lee's obnoxious voice
challenge from the door.
Another random document with
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In their progress through the country on anti-slavery missions, the
agents of the Massachusetts Society never failed, from the
beginning, to learn how hard it is to be reproached for a righteous
man’s name’s sake. To appreciate the force of their temptation, let
the beholder, for a moment, place himself in their situation. It is in the
power of the minister in almost every parish, to procure them a
hearing,—but he is in combination with his brethren to “put down
Garrison.” Is it wonderful that, instead of silencing the bigot or the
slanderer with the assertion “he is a good man and a faithful
abolitionist, and his opinions on other subjects are no more our
business than your own,” they should have striven to repel their
assailants by endeavoring to draw a line of distinction between him
and themselves? Parallel to this was the course of Peter; unrepented
of, it deepens into the darker dye that marks a Judas.
When men who sought a pretence to avoid the consideration of the
cause, were told that the Massachusetts Board of Managers differed
as widely as themselves from Mr. Garrison’s opinions on other
subjects, their intolerance forbade them to credit the statement. If the
Agents ventured to cast freely off, in the name of the Society, all
responsibility for Mr. Garrison’s individual opinions, and to vindicate
the rectitude and energy of his abolition course from the beginning,
they were obliged to endure the reproach of being “tools of
Garrison,” and singing his praises, when they should rather be
employed in removing such a stumbling-block out of the path of
“good men.” A truly noble soul, thus spurred up to the encounter,
would have exclaimed in the spirit of Bürger:—

“Thank Heaven for song and praise, that I can

Thus sing the song of the faithful man!”

The enemy, thus met, would have ceased to play so ineffectual a

string; but, perceiving the weakness of the agents of this year, he
never ceased to have recourse to it.
Let not those who have never been tried in such a furnace,
condemn, without pardon and pity, those whose nobility of spirit was
not equal to pass the assay.
There appears to have been, on the part of Mr. Phelps, and the other
agents of this period, an inability to comprehend or appreciate the
just and straight-forward course of the Massachusetts Board, with
whom they were associated, as well as a consciousness that it
would never permit its sanction to be used for their purposes. They
therefore carefully kept their operations secret from the Board, while
they were using its funds and sanction to carry them on, in
conjunction with Mr. Torrey, and Mr. Stanton, the Secretary of the
Executive Committee at New York. All the Summer and Autumn of
1838, the scheme for a new paper was thus secretly carried on. Mr.
Torrey wrote afterwards to a friend, “the clergymen throughout the
State have been sounded; and they are for it, to a man.”
The plan of a new paper, to be under their own dictation, and in an
attitude of opposition to the man and to the paper whom their
misrepresentations had made odious, could not fail to be approved
by the ministry; but to abolitionists, a different form of introduction
was found necessary. To them it was represented that it would aid
the Liberator, and that possibly Mr. Garrison might be induced to
become the editor. Its comparative cheapness, too, was an
inducement to some honest minds, who were unaware of its purpose
to effect a division in their ranks.
More than a year had elapsed since the clerical appeal conspiracy.
Some of the appellants had become officers of county Societies.
Certain of their brethren in spirit, as well as in the ministry, had taken
the lead in town Societies;—a creeping movement was in this way
going on among them, to get the control of the organizations; and,
co-operating with it, were the young theologians who had aided the
old attempt against the cause; now, some of them, as the occupants
of pulpits, rejoicing in the opportunity to lend their aid to the new one.
Mr. Phelps, in whom general confidence was yet unimpaired, was
every where warm in his eulogies of Mr. Torrey’s diligence in the
cause. But those who had opportunities of observing his course
closely, were made aware that mischief and diligence are by no
means incompatible. His labors were unremitting to weaken the
bonds of relationship between the County Society and the State
Society. The abolitionists of Essex, generally, saw not the tendency
and design of these efforts. They could be made without suspicion,
as the National Society had ever been a favorite with Massachusetts
men, with whom it originated, and who constitute the largest portion
of its efficient members. Such men could not readily conceive of the
possibility of acting in their County capacity or their National
capacity, in opposition to themselves in their State capacity. But the
active brains of the Secretary of the Executive Committee at New
York, together with the Secretaries of the Massachusetts and the
Essex County Societies, had devised and cherished the idea of such
a change, though it would necessarily convert the affiliated Anti-
Slavery system from a harmonious whole, into jarring and discordant
divisions. A society had, before this, been formed in the western part
of the State, to be directly auxiliary to the National Society. This
circumstance was unnoticed at the time, except by a few, who waited
for the light of future events by which to interpret its meaning.
Such disunion and derangement could not be easily effected in the
region where the free spirit first laid the broad foundations of its
organized action. It was necessary to cast about for some plausible
ground on which to create division of feeling, and to proceed upon it
with the utmost caution.
Public sentiment had become so far changed in Massachusetts by
the eight years’ warfare of abolitionists, that ministers were almost as
liable to public censure for an open pro-slavery course, as for an
open advocacy of Freedom. They, of all men, were, in one sense,
justified in the customary declaration that they were “as much anti-
slavery as others;” for they kept careful watch of the times, that they
might not vary from them materially. With all their prudence and
caution, they found this double public a difficult monster to manage.
Though, as a body, they had undergone no change of feeling, they
perceived that their efforts to check the progress of Freedom, must
be made more carefully than ever; and they adopted a tone of great
solicitude for “the poor slave.”
Pity, even when unfeigned, is not principle, any more than “American
Union”[3] was anti-slavery; and in this instance “poor slave” was but
the synonym for hostility to the Massachusetts Society. Well has cant
been called “the second power of a lie.”
The additional ground on which a division of feeling preparatory to
the projected outward division was attempted, was the assertion,
sedulously disseminated by Mr. St. Clair, Mr. Torrey, Mr. Stanton, and
Mr. Phelps, that the Massachusetts Society was a “no-government
Society.” Of this the only proof was, that it had not ostracised Mr.
Garrison. It was argued that the Constitution of the Massachusetts
Society required the use of every means sanctioned by law,
humanity and religion; therefore Mr. Garrison and all other Non-
Resistants who decline exercising the elective franchise, were, by
the terms of the Constitution, excluded from the Society.
“Political action,” adverted to in the Constitution, now had a new
definition affixed to it. It was defined by one of this new school to
mean poll-itical action, or action at the polls.
This logic, though very efficacious among those who had rather see
the battle rage round the polls than round the pulpit, produced but
little effect on the real abolitionists. “Law and humanity and religion;”
they said——“Well! these must, by the Constitution of the Society,
conjunctively agree upon the means to be employed, and each man
was of course to be his own judge of their requisitions; for there
never would have been a Constitution or a Society on any other
understanding. Law! Well; the law sanctions my restoration of a
fugitive slave, should I deem such a propitiation of the master likely
to produce a happy effect in hastening a general emancipation. Am I
therefore bound to do it? No! for my humanity and religion interpose
their veto. But, what if Mr. Garrison’s humanity and religion forbid
him to vote? I cannot see why they should, but that’s his look-out as
an individual—not mine as an abolitionist:—and the Constitution of
the Massachusetts Society covers us both.”
Such plain blunt reasonings could put to flight the assumption that
voting at the polls was a test of membership: but of course it did but
increase the bitterness of feeling of those who sought a cause of
offence against the Society, to find none.
That Mr. Garrison was personally aimed at, and the Massachusetts
Society also, because it would not consent to his ignominious
expulsion, no one doubted, who was at the receipt of clerical custom.
The on dits were plentiful, authenticated and conclusive. “Garrison
has too much influence,” said one. “We must take it down little by
little.” “Have you got Garrison down yet?” said another; “we are
ready to come in when he is out of the way.” “All the Massachusetts
meetings are mere Garrison-glorifications,” said a third; “they forget
the poor slave.” “Oh, the Massachusetts Society is the mere creature
of Garrison,” said a fourth. “So many good abolitionists as there are
in the State, opposed to him, why not get rid of him at once?” said
the outside row. “All in good time—a new paper first, as the organ of
the Society—and we can make advantageous changes in the Board
of Managers also, as they wish to resign,”—replied the inner circle,
that were most closely hemming round the Massachusetts Society,
with hostility in the disguise of friendship.
Charitable judgment is an excellent thing. Possibly, Arnold thought
that the revolutionary principles might be promoted by giving up
Washington to the discontents of the factious, and the demands of
the foe; and exactly the same possibility exists that these men of
great professions and hitherto unattainted names, were sincere
blunderers,—not treacherous apostates. An excellent thing in its
place, is charitable judgment. Whether its place be to refuse to see
or to sum up evidence, admits of controversy.
The accusations against the Massachusetts Society, however,
appeared, on evidence, to be unfounded. Its Board of Managers had
issued an address to abolitionists preparatory to the political
campaign, and had concentrated their agents upon the fourth
Congressional District, where the political parties were so nicely
matched against each other, that the abolitionists, though but the
dust of the balance, might, it was hoped, by successive defeats of
the election, at length procure a candidate from one or the other
party on whom they could unite. This one fact of the personal labors
and concentration of effort for political effect on the part of the
Managers of the Society, presented itself to every mind and
neutralized the misrepresentations that were so industriously
circulated. In reality, the whole force of the Society had been bent to
this one point; and the Board, knowing that the County Societies
were deeply pledged in the matter of funds, relied upon abolitionists
in their county capacity to raise the money now due to the National
Society, on the Massachusetts pledge.
At this juncture, one of the faithful friends in Andover, was startled by
the reception of a letter from Mr. Torrey, so explicit as to rouse him at
once to a perception of the meaning and tendencies of things, which,
till then, had escaped his notice. The letter dwelt on the great
influence of Mr. Garrison in Massachusetts, and thence argued that it
would not be safe to attack him or the Liberator openly;—on the
great need of a new paper;—which he, (Mr. Torrey) had ascertained
by sounding the clergymen throughout the State; and they were for it
to a man. “Now, Brother ——, have on a full delegation at the Annual
Meeting, at 10 o’clock in the morning, prepared to stay two days.
Have them pledged to go for the new paper, and to spar the annual
report, and we will show them how it is done.”
Upon the reception of this letter, those who had been wont to keep
watch and ward over the interests of the cause in Essex, met and
decided to communicate instantly with other friends, that, if possible,
the evil might be subdued in this stage of its progress.
Dr. Farnsworth, of Middlesex, with whose own observation and
experience their intelligence harmonized, instantly suggested to Mr.
Garrison the idea of removing all their pretensions for such a paper
by issuing a small cheap sheet of exclusively Anti-Slavery matter. Mr.
Garrison, from whom, though in almost daily communication with Mr.
Phelps, Mr. St. Clair and Mr. Stanton, their whole plan had been
carefully kept, could hardly credit so treacherous a proceeding.
Had an honest desire for a new paper been entertained, he, surely,
whose note of joyous exultation had welcomed the appearance of
every new anti-slavery periodical, should have been among the first
whose aid was sought; and, that the plan had not reached his ears,
seemed to him to prove conclusively, that at least those brethren of
the Society with whom he had daily intercourse, could not be
engaged in it. Relying on Dr. Farnsworth’s good judgment, he,
however, decided to issue the specimen number of the periodical
proposed.
But, as day after day brought fresh proof of a skilfully arranged plan
of secret action against the Massachusetts Society, his mind
misgave him as to the efficiency of any paper he might issue, to stay
its progress, and he relinquished the idea.
Dr. Farnsworth, meanwhile, receiving no information of this,
continued diligently to prepare the way in Middlesex County for the
expected sheet. Of these labors, the enemies of the Liberator took
advantage, and artfully represented his honest efforts for a paper
which should subserve the pending election, and, at the same time
remove all pretence for setting on foot an influence hostile to the
Liberator, as a part of their own plan.
Singular symptoms were noticed in the political management of the
Fourth District. Without consulting either the Massachusetts or the
Middlesex County Board, Mr. Stanton undertook the task of
determining on whom the abolitionists should scatter their votes.
Somewhat remarkable was his selection of the Rev. J. T. Woodbury,
—the man who, in 1836, had thrown down the gauntlet to the pro-
slavery church; and, in 1837, lacked the moral force to sustain the
pressure of the antagonism he had impulsively sought; the man
against whose commission as a local agent by the New York
Executive Committee, the Massachusetts Board formally
remonstrated when they found him a participant in the clerical
appeal.
Deeper solicitude for the cause would have shown him that men who
fail in the “cushioned seat ecclesiastical,” cannot faithfully discharge
the equally weighty responsibilities of the Congressional one. The
evil considerations that temptingly beset the latter, are as numerous
—their angelic disguises as complete. But Mr. Stanton’s own course,
during that year, had not been such as to make his soul more keenly
alive to the sacred beauty of fidelity.
Dr. Farnsworth’s continually increasing knowledge of the
machinations now on foot, increased his sense of the necessity of a
counteracting influence; and, with a faithfulness which was
undamped by the apparent neglect which had met his first warning,
he continued to urge on the members of the Massachusetts Board,
the necessity of a new cheap periodical, as their organ, to be edited
by Mr. Garrison; monthly if they thought best, though in his judgment
a weekly issue would more effectually remove the pretences of those
who were laboring for the destruction of the Liberator.
When this proposition was formally presented to the Board by Mr.
Garrison, Mr. Phelps chanced to be absent; but Mr. Eayrs, a member
with whom Mr. Phelps was on terms of confidence which he did not
extend to all the other members, remarked that it would be better to
postpone any action of this kind, as there would probably be
changes in the Board at the annual meeting. So innocent were some
of the members of the Board of any knowledge of what was
practising against them, and so repugnant was suspicion to their
natures, that those of them whose eyes had not been recently
opened by personal experiences, honestly supposed that such a
paper might satisfy the alleged demand; and, after a few days’ delay,
on account of Mr. Phelps’s absence, it was decided to issue three
thousand copies of a specimen number, Messrs. Garrison, Phillips
and Quincy to be an editorial committee. On learning this, Mr. Phelps
said, with much agitation, that such a paper would by no means
answer the demand. His words and his manner were a sufficient
assurance that the plot had gone too far to be arrested by any
possible effort of the Massachusetts Board, and all their energies
were now bent to the painful task of hastening its complete
development.

FOOTNOTES:
[2] “Of Mr. Garrison I will say, as the Pope said of his minion, I will
absolve him of all the sins he ever has committed, or ever will
commit.”—Speech of Mr. St. Clair in 1837.
[3] A scheme so called, for benefiting the colored race, without giving
offence by the mention of Freedom, or Human Rights.
 CHAPTER IV.
THE WARNING.

The task of such an editor, Mr. President, is an arduous and

thankless one. He must shield his friends by movements for
which they will be apt to censure him. He must save the cause
by the very blows from which the apparently judicious will
anticipate its annihilation. He must stand on an eminence from
which he can see what other men cannot see. He must be eyes
to the blind, whose want of eye-sight will lead them to make war
upon their benefactor. He must rouse men from their dangerous
sleep, who, while they begin to see men as trees walking, will
murmur because they are waked, and instead of thanking their
deliverer, find fault with the rudeness that disturbed them, and
assume to give directions when they should be beginning to
learn. William Goodell.

Time, which waits for no man, but keeps on, with even foot-fall,
whether witness of right or wrong, frankness and openness, or
chicanery and intrigue, brought round the year 1839.
Mr. Torrey, who had represented his county as crying out for a new
paper, till possibly the echo of his own voice might have led him to
think his testimony true, now found a feeling waking up in Old Essex
that he had not anticipated. The women there, with whom, in the
spirit of a true mussulman, he had, a few months previous,
considered it defilement to sit in Convention, had always been most
effectual helpers of the financial department of the cause. Some of
them had been among the earliest laborers; and, experienced in
observing the pertinacity with which the enemy, from the beginning,
had striven to possess himself of the fortress, by striking down the
warder of the gate, were startled by Mr. Torrey’s great zeal for a new
paper. They compared it with his hatred of the Liberator, so manifest
during the clerical appeal controversy, and took note, from time to
time, of the manner in which he argued this new necessity.
They found that, like the Colonization Society, the necessity had two
faces; one for the real and the other for the pretended abolitionist.
They saw that this “necessity” was founded on prejudice against the
Liberator, as the Colonization Society rests upon prejudice against
the free man of color.

“Oh, surer than suspicion’s hundred eyes,

Is that fine sense, which, to the pure in heart,
By mere oppugnancy of their own goodness,
Reveals the approach of evil.”

They decided to strengthen the Liberator for the coming emergency,

and raised $500 for its support.
This appropriation operated like an Ithuriel spear upon the craft of
the confederated opposers. It had been their policy to represent their
proposed periodical as likely to aid the circulation of the Liberator.
Now, Mr. Torrey pronounced this appropriation a highly improper
one. He put his condemnation of the measure into the shape of a
general principle. “An Anti-Slavery Society, aiding the circulation of
the Boston Recorder, the Liberator, or any other such irrelevant
periodical! it would meet strong opposition at Lynn.” He mistook,
from inability to appreciate, the abolitionists of that neighborhood.
That indefinable sensation began to stir through the anti-slavery
ranks which betokens a conflict. The “oppugnancy” rose in every true
heart near the scene of action; but so craftily had the enemy
wrought, that the danger was, lest he should accomplish his ends
before he could be unmasked to the general gaze. Men who saw not
the causes, observed the whirl and eddy of the current of events.
The feeling was like that described by Max. Piccolomini, before the
revolt of Friedland.
 ——“Something,
I can’t but know, is going forward round me.
I see it gathering—crowding—driving on,
In wild uncustomary movements. Well—
In due time, it will doubtless reach even me.”

There was a breathless and impatient looking for.

Indications of the exact course that the miners and sappers were
pursuing, now came to light. Mr. St. Clair, still an agent of the
Massachusetts Board, left in their office a rough draught of
resolutions to effect a fatal change in the basis of the Massachusetts
Society, making it exclusive and sectarian, by a rejection of all as
consistent members, who did not sustain the government of the
country at the polls. The establishment of a new paper was also
enjoined, in terms the necessary effect of which was destructive of
the Liberator. These resolutions were endorsed by Mr. Torrey, thus:

“Good. I think, now, such resolutions should have been

presented at the Essex County Meeting at Amesbury Mills.
Charles T. Torrey.”

The plan was, to carry the State by counties and by towns, and then
to crowd up to the grand annual meeting in irresistible strength, to
give the finishing blow.
The next meeting of consequence was that of the Worcester County
Society, (north division,) at Fitchburg. There, Mr. St. Clair introduced
the new ideas, by means of the projected resolutions. At the close of
the meeting, after most of the friends had retired, and against the
wishes of some who remained, he persisted in presenting them.
They were adopted, after speeches from himself and the Rev. Mr.
Colver, by the raising of five or six hands; probably without a
perception of their design and tendency on the part of that few.

FITCHBURG RESOLUTIONS.
Whereas, slavery is the creature of legislation, upheld and
supported by law, and is to be abolished by law, and by law
only; and
Whereas, in order to secure its legal overthrow, the legislative
bodies having power over the same must be composed of good
men and true, who will go for its immediate abolition; and
Whereas, it is impossible to obtain such a legislative body,
unless abolitionists carry their principles to the ballot-box, and
vote only for men of this character; and
Whereas, it is impossible to urge this duty on the consideration
of abolitionists without an able paper, which will take this ground
and maintain it consistently, firmly and constantly: Therefore,
Resolved, 1st, That, in the opinion of this Society, every
abolitionist is in duty bound, not to content himself with merely
refusing to vote for any man who is opposed to the
emancipation of the slave, BUT TO GO TO THE POLLS, AND THROW HIS
VOTE FOR SOME MAN KNOWN TO FAVOR IT.

2d. That it is his imperious duty to make inalienable human

rights the first and paramount principles in political action; and,
when any two candidates for Congress or the State Legislature
are put in nomination, one for and the other against the
immediate abolition of slavery, he is in duty bound to vote for the
abolitionist, independent of all other political considerations;—or,
if neither candidate be of this description, then he is equally
bound to go to the polls, and vote for some true man in
opposition to them both, and to do all he can, lawfully, to defeat
their election.
3d. That a weekly and ably-conducted anti-slavery paper, which
shall take right, high, and consistent ground on this subject, and
constantly urge abolitionists, as in duty bound, to use their
political, as well as their moral and religious power and rights for
the immediate overthrow of slavery, is now greatly needed in
Massachusetts, as has been but too plainly proved at the
 expense of the cause, by difficulties which have been
experienced in the Fourth Congressional District, in reaching the
anti-slavery electors on the subject of their political duties.
4th. That we therefore earnestly recommend to the Board of
Managers of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society, or to the
Society itself at its next annual meeting, to establish a paper of
this description—of about the size and price of the Herald of
Freedom—to be issued every week to subscribers—to be
exclusively confined to slavery and abolition—to urge constantly,
political as well as moral and religious action—to be edited by
some able, efficient man, who can conscientiously and heartily
advocate all these points—and to be under the entire control of
the Executive Committee of the State Society.
5th. That we desire every County and Town Society, which may
hold a meeting previous to the annual meeting of the State
Society, to take up and pass an opinion on this subject.

These resolutions were lithographed and sent to the officers of

Societies, by Mr. Phelps, Mr. St. Clair, and Mr. Torrey, accompanied
by earnest injunctions to county meetings to send up great
delegations to the annual meeting, instructed to carry them through,
with assurances to such as they could not fully trust, that “they were
opposed to nothing but dough-face-ism.”
In the same number of the Liberator in which the resolutions
appeared, an unanticipated obstacle to their design was also
announced. The President of the Massachusetts Society, though
neither peace man nor perfectionist, but one who, individually,
considered it his duty to use his elective franchise, took charge of the
financial concerns of the Liberator, in conjunction with two of his
colleagues of the Board; and in their individual capacity they gave
notice to the public of their reasons for so doing. That paper was, in
their view identified with the anti-slavery cause in a manner that
could be affirmed of no other print, not only from the circumstance of
its having been the first, but more strongly, because of the
faithfulness, constancy, and disregard of peril and persecution; the
excellence of character editorial talent, and intuitive sagacity, of its
conductor. And because they thought those qualities never more
needed than at that moment, they called upon all who loved the
cause to stand by the Liberator. It was signed by Francis Jackson,
William Bassett, and Edmund Quincy.
Here was an unexpected blow:—A contradiction of calumnies, a
financial security, a politician’s attestation to the value of the
Liberator, combined in one view, before the eyes of the anti-slavery
community. It was done, too, without any claim on the part of the
doers, that the Liberator should sink from being the organ of all in the
cause who chose to use it, into the mere instrument of a few. This
was prophetic of stout resistance to the narrow, exclusive, and
enslaving spirit which had so long wrought in secret, to undermine
the broad foundations of the anti-slavery cause.
The shrewd proverb of the lookers-on during revolutions, says that

“Treason never prospers: what’s the reason?

When it prospers, men don’t call it treason.”

Happily for the slave, at this critical instant, there were not wanting
men to call out “Treason!” against this whole procedure, irrespective
of its probable success, in that soul-cleaving and victorious voice
which carries with it instant conviction.
It is interesting to observe the course of men in peculiar and trying
times, and to notice the strong contrasts of character and conduct
that such times present.
Mr. Phelps, Mr. Stanton, Mr. Torrey, and Mr. St. Clair were hurrying
from meeting to meeting with the Fitchburg resolutions, or driving the
quill over quires of paper, urging the instant convocation of the
societies for the introduction of the new paper, saying that it was not
intended to be in opposition to the old, but only introduced because
nine out of ten of the abolitionists in the State would not take the
Liberator,—that it would probably be adopted with great unanimity as
the organ of the State Society, at the Annual Meeting—and dwelling
strongly on the importance of sending up large delegations,
instructed to vote in its favor.
Mr. Garrison stood calmly watching the aspect of the times, and
when the signs were full, he raised the note of warning—

“WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?”

The annual meeting of the State Anti-Slavery Society will be
held in this city on the 23d inst. There are many indications
which lead us to regard it as pregnant with momentous
consequences to the abolition cause in this section of the
country. Perhaps at no period has there been so much cause for
just alarm as at the present. Strong foes are without, insidious
plotters are within the camp. A conflict is at hand,—if the signs
of the times do not deceive us,—which is to be more hotly
contested, and which will require more firmness of nerve and
greater singleness of purpose, (combined with sleepless
vigilance and unswerving integrity,) than any through which we
have passed to victory. Once more, therefore, we would speak
trumpet-tongued—sound an alarm-bell—light up a beacon-fire—
give out a new watch-word—so that there may be a general
rallying of our early, intrepid, storm-proof, scarred and veteran
coadjutors, at the coming anniversary,—all panoplied as of yore,
and prepared to give battle to internal contrivers of mischief, as
readily as to external and avowed enemies.
The danger which now threatens all that is pure and vital in our
cause, is two-fold and complex. From the commencement of our
sacred struggle, we have been resisted by every religious sect,
and made by turns the foot-ball of every political party. As
among all sects and all parties, there are some who will never
bow the knee to Baal, but are resolved to follow Right and
Truth through flood and fire, come what may—these, by the
irresistible affinity of principle, have come into our ranks,
repudiating every sectarian distinction, every party badge, and
refusing to march under any other banner than that of
 Humanity. Bravely have they contended, cheerfully have they
suffered, in the cause of their enslaved countrymen; and nobly
have they withstood a thousand wily artifices to seduce them
from their post. And they will persevere unto the end.

“Tempt them with bribes, ’twill be in vain;

Try them with fire, you’ll find them true.”

But all external opposition, in whatever form it may appear, is

harmless, compared to internal sedition.—And with pain we avow it,
there is a deep scheme laid by individuals, at present somewhat
conspicuous, as zealous and active abolitionists, to put the control of
the anti-slavery movements in this Commonwealth into other hands.
This scheme, of course, is of clerical origin, and the prominent
ringleaders fill the clerical office. One of the most restless was a
participant in the famous “Clerical Appeal” conspiracy,—though not
one of the immortal FIVE. The design is, by previous management
and drilling, to effect such a change in the present faithful and liberal-
minded Board of Managers of the State Society, at the annual
meeting, as will throw the balance of power into the hands of a far
different body of men, for the accomplishment of ulterior measures
which are now in embryo.—The next object is, to effect the
establishment of a new weekly anti-slavery journal, to be the organ
of the State Society, for the purpose, if not avowedly, yet designedly
to subvert the Liberator, and thus relieve the abolition cause in this
State of the odium of counteracting such a paper. Then——make
way for the clergy! For, by “hanging Garrison,” and repudiating the
Liberator, they will surely condescend to take the reins of anti-slavery
management into their own hands!
The plot, thus far, has been warily managed,—so as, if possible, to
“deceive the very elect.” Many, we know, are already ensnared, and
some, at least, who neither intend nor suspect mischief. The guise in
which it is presented, is one of deep solicitude for the success of our
cause. No attempt is made to lower down the standard—O no!—but
simply to change the men to whom has been so long entrusted the
management of the enterprize, and put in their place younger men,
better men, who will accomplish wonders, and perform their duties
more faithfully—that’s all! While, privately, by conversation, letters,
circulars, &c. &c. every effort is making to disparage the Liberator,
(the paper is too tame for these rampant plotters!) and to calumniate
its editor, no hostility to either is to be openly avowed! Far from it; for
honesty in this case might not, peradventure, prove to be the best
policy.—The shape in which this new project is to be urged, is
developed in the resolutions which were adopted at the recent
meeting of the Worcester County North Division A. S. Society, at
Fitchburgh. Those resolutions were concocted in Essex County, by
the joint labors of two clergymen, and passed as above stated,—only
four or five hands, we learn, being raised in their favor. The plan is, it
seems, to get as many anti-slavery societies committed in favor of
these resolutions, before the annual meeting, as possible. The
political necessity which is urged for another paper is ridiculous; and
we know it is nothing but a hollow pretence.
The trusty friends of our good cause, and all who desire to baffle the
machinations of a clerical combination, will need no other notice than
this, to induce them to rally at the annual meeting, and watch with
jealousy and meet with firmness every attempt, however plausibly
made, to effect any material change in the management of the
concerns of the State Society. The spirit that would discard such
men as Francis Jackson, Ellis Gray Loring, Samuel E. Sewall,
Edmund Quincy, and Wendell Phillips, is treacherous to humanity.
As a specimen of the billing and cooing which is going on between
gentlemen of the sacerdotal robe, in order to bring about a radical
alteration in anti-slavery control, read the following extract from a
recent letter of the Rev. Dr. Osgood, of Springfield, to Prof. Emerson,
of the Theological Seminary at Andover:

“I do not say these things to palliate the conduct of these writers

in the anti-slavery papers who have poured such torrents of
abuse upon the non-conformists among the clergy. I have ever
spoken freely about many of these communications, both to
friends and opposers. I think there has been a bad spirit
 manifested on the side of the abolitionists toward the opposing
clergy; or, if you please, those who stand aloof and do nothing. I
do most sincerely hope that my brethren who like you (!) hate
slavery, but still remain neuter, (!) will calmly review the whole
ground, and sacrifice all minor considerations, and work with us
in this cause. I see no insuperable objections. I desire this the
more ardently, because the character of the ministry suffers, in
the estimation of many good men, by the course they pursue,
while the enemies of all righteousness take occasion to thrust a
sword into the vitals of religion itself, through the clergy. Mr.
Garrison, sir, is not the principal offender in this matter; [very
gentle!]—he is made answerable, as a public editor, for the
conduct of others. But ☞ our brethren [such men as Moses
Stuart and Ralph Emerson!] can easily take the sword out of the
hand of these VIOLENT AND PREJUDICED MEN. ☜ ☞ And I
trust they will soon do it EFFECTUALLY, by some course of ACTION.
The cause would be greatly promoted by their co-operation”!! ☜

Wendell Phillips, the same who took the brunt of the battle at Faneuil
Hall, upon the day when men met there to wash their hands of
Lovejoy’s murder, was among the foremost to detect the subtler form
of danger. His letter to the financial committee of the Liberator, which
appeared in the next column to the call of the watchman, stripped
the opposition of their disguises, with a firm and dexterous hand. It
exhibits, in a condensed form, the mind of one who had knowledge
of the cause throughout the State, as a lecturer and a manager of
the Society, and throughout the land, as an acute and philosophical
observer. In politics, a voter,—in theology, a Calvinist,—in church
government, a congregationalist,—looking on these things from the
same point of view with those who were laboring for the destruction
of Freedom, toleration and fraternal confidence in the cause, he
came to diametrically opposite conclusions.—

“The heart’s aye the part aye,

That makes us right or wrong.”
 LETTER OF WENDELL PHILLIPS.
Messrs. Jackson, Quincy, and Bassett:
Dear Sirs—I wish to express to you the satisfaction which the
new arrangements for the Liberator have given me. They will
gain for it a wider circulation and more permanent usefulness. I
feel not merely for the paper itself—though it would give me
pain, I confess, to see the first banner which was unfurled in our
cause, which has braved for so many years the battle and the
breeze, having lived down its enemies, sink at last from the
coldness of its friends. But, apart from this, I regard the success
of the Liberator as identical with that of the abolition cause itself.
Though so bitterly opposed, it does more to disseminate,
develope and confirm our principles, than any other publication
whatever. The spirit which produced, still animates it, and with
magnetic influence draws from all parts of society every thing
like around it. Other measures may suit different circumstances,
and other parts of the country; but here, and now, the spirit of
the Liberator is the touchstone of true hearts. Almost all the
opposition it has met with, various as it seems, springs from one
cause. At starting, some who agreed with its principles
denounced it as “foul-mouthed and abusive;” next, the
occasional expression of some individual opinions of its editor,
gained it the name of “irreligious and Jacobin;”—and now some
point to its peace views as infidel in their tendency, and a
stumbling-block in our way. Under all these disguises have men
concealed their motives, sometimes even from themselves.
The real cause of this opposition, in my opinion, is the
fundamental principle upon which the Liberator has been
conducted:—that rights are more valuable than forms; that truth
is a better guide than prescription; that no matter how much
truth a sect embodies, no matter how useful a profession may
be, no matter how much benefit any form of government may
confer—still they are all but dust in the balance when weighed
against the protection of human rights, the discussion and
publication of great truths; that all forms of human device are