“Fear not them which can kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do.”
Our Captain now crept softly through the little cornfield which occupied the centre of the square, diagonally, to the extreme corner; to the dwelling and office of the Postmaster, and made his way to a second-story verandah which extended the entire length and breadth of the two rear sides of the edifice. This verandah was thickly latticed, but a few strips were broken off, high up on the end next Market street.
There he stood, looking down upon “the dead-ring” we have already described, till day lit the east.
Mann Harris was a large, black man—a porter in a store in the city opposite, and he sat among the other prisoners in the dust of the street almost beneath Doc’s feet.
Having conveyed his invalid wife to a place of safety, he had returned to protect his property. He sauntered about the streets, watching the current of events while that remained safe, and then retired to his own dwelling, probably supposing that “every man’s house is his castle,” and he would there be at once beyond the reach of attack, and the temptation to resentment. Peeping down from a second-story window (for he closed the house to give it the appearance of being deserted), he saw ‘old man Baker’ and his son Hanson standing at the corner of his house, pistols in hands.
His inoffensive neighbor Pincksney approached, and was about to pass.
“Where are you going?” demanded Baker.
“I’m going to the drill-room.”
“You can’t go.”
A brief parley resulted in a repetition of the prohibition, “I tell you, you can’t go, and you may as well go back!” emphasized with an oath.