Private O’Brien of Company B, together with several members from Company G, were now ordered by Major Burdick to force the crowd that was gathering down Front street until they connected with the scouts who had been sent along K street. This was done, and a line of sentinels was formed diagonally across the intersection of Front and K streets, and a busy time they had of it.
The strange things that some men will do when they haven’t a gun are beyond all comprehension; but even beyond this is the strange thing that O’Malley did this morning without his gun. A line of sentinels was established across M street, holding at bay a large crowd. Inside of this line our friend, the Doctor, with a red cross pinned upon his arm to show his superior breed, was pacing impatiently up and down with the restlessness of a caged lion, his fierce and terrible mien exciting terror in the crowd. Occasionally he would pause in his wild march and take a few steps towards the panic-stricken mob; then, changing his mind, he would turn and continue pacing his beat. A dread silence fell upon the multitude. Who is this man, this supernatural being? Woe unto me, they cried inwardly. Take him away! Their terror was further increased by O’Malley, after casting several dark glances from under his heavy, lowering eyebrows, suddenly springing forward and grasping one of their number, a big, burly ruffian, by the throat. Dragging him forward O’Malley fiercely shouted:
“Give me your gun.”
“I haven’t any,” screamingly replied the fellow, falling upon his knees and beseeching mercy with uplifted hands.
“You lie, darn you”! And jerking the fellow to his feet O’Malley put his hand into the man’s pocket and drew out a small-sized Gatling gun.
“Now vamoose,” he said, emphasizing the words with a kick that hastened the departure.
The crowd, on seeing what had happened, cried out, “A devil!” and fled in the wildest confusion.[6]
[6] This above account was written by O’Malley, and therefore the committee do not certify to its accuracy. O’Malley, however, is generally truthful.
The signalmen, by rolling up their paraphernalia and descending from the roof, indicated that the regulars had landed. This was verified by a low rumbling noise coming from Front street. The battalion was called to “attention” just as the regulars, headed by Colonel Graham, turned into L street.
The battalion was brought to “present arms.” As the regulars marched past on the way to the depot each man involuntarily made a comparison between the National Guardsman and the regular. And it is safe to say that the result was not overwhelmingly in favor of the regular. True, the regular on the average, is a larger and an older man, and walks with a more deliberate and measured stride. But what of this? The militia has a quicker and a more sprightly step. Besides this, the National Guardsman lacks the dull passiveness which characterizes the face of the regular, and which is so often taken by the public for determination. But this is not determination. Determination is measured by the strength of the will. The militiaman may not move like a passionless machine, but that very life which shines forth from his eyes is the thing that in the hour of danger is going to generate such an amount of determination that the regular can never possess.