“Now, I tell you what,” said another speaker, fingering a huge pistol; “all get on this side of these —— niggers, and we’ll just fire into ’em.”
At that moment a cheer arose, and hats of all descriptions were swung wildly in the air.
“Hurrah! Here comes our chief!” shouted the mob, and made room for horse and rider to approach the ring, though the single solid circle of armed men remained unbroken. The poor fellows upon the ground raised their heads, and cried out each for his life, “Oh, Gen. Baker!” “Oh, Gen. Baker!” “You will save me!” “You will save my life,” “Gen. Baker, I surrendered right off, I did,” “I han’t done nothing,” “I’m just a honest, hard-working man.” “Don’t let ’em kill me, Gen. Baker!” “Yo’ will set me free, General Bakah, I’m sho fo’ yo’s a gemman!” and beseeching hands were uplifted, and dark faces upturned in earnest pleading for the protection they felt sure “a high-toned gentleman,” and “chivalrous chieftain” would give.
“Is William Daws here in this ring?” asked the General.
“Yes sah,” was the prompt and confident reply.
“You’re the black rascal that burned my house down,” and with a vile epithet this personification of southern magnanimity rode away.
“Ah! Ah!” groaned the crowd, in derision of the misplaced confidence of the negroes.
“There’s Alden Watta,” said a mocking voice. “You’re a magistrate, I suppose! You’re a —— nice looking magistrate!” and he scooped up a handful of soil and threw it into the back of Watta’s neck, as his head hung down. “There’s a baptism for you.”