The sound of small arms continued in various parts of the village, while the debauched desperadoes sought their victims in their hiding-places.
Then the familiar stentorian voice of John Carr, crying, “Oh Lord! Oh Lord!” and the succeeding volley which silenced it, struck terror into the poor man’s soul, and he fell upon his knees alone in the darkened room, and with forehead upon the floor, and trembling in every limb, he whispered, “God Almighty, I’m an awful bad man! I a’n’t prepared to die. Oh, save me, Jesus Christ!”
The discharge of firearms nearly ceased, at length, but was succeeded by loud shouts and sounds of violence and cursing, the shrieks of women, and the cries of little children, and the alarm of fire—for the ruffians dragged the helpless innocents from their houses, some of which they set on fire, in their zeal to arrest every ‘nigger’ and ‘radical.’
Harris’ house, and that of General Rives, joined and communicated by folding doors: indeed, were only different apartments of the same dwelling.
The sound of numerous heavy feet was soon heard upon the porch. A blow, and Rives’ door flew open.
The occupants had fled, but the shouts and oaths, the heavy blows, and cracking furniture, and crashing crockery and glass, told that “the white-livered Judge” was no exception when Republicans must suffer.
“Oh laws!” said Harris, mentally, “from the sound of that smashing up of things and going on, I feel pretty bad myself! Though they has done all the shooting niggers in the street, the next turn will be mine, shor!”
He stood in the hall, ready for exit through the front door, and when he heard the butts of their guns strike upon the folding doors which he had secured the best he could, he walked out upon the porch.
Ten or twelve blood-thirsty men stood at the foot of the steps, and vociferated.
“Come down, you —— big nigger! come down!”