“There a’n’t no court in South Carolina that can try us anyhow,” said another.
“That’s so! That’s so!” resounded through the crowd.
“Hello! Hurrah! here comes another nigger! Got Capt. Doc this time? Capt. Doc! Capt. Doc!” (with oaths), rang through the swaying mob which surrounded the dead ring, as a posse from the General’s headquarters advanced with the new victim.
Not without difficulty a way was opened for the conveyance of—not Captain Doc (who was watching and listening attentively at the Cook street end of the verandah, and not twenty paces from the spot), but a good faced boy, yet in his teens.
His eyes rolled wildly about, he trembled violently, and his breath came quick and short, though without a sound.
“Oh, Friend Robbins,” said Watta, “I’m sorry they have got you? Your widowed mother and the children need your support. Where is Joey? (the company’s drummer-boy).”
“I don’t know,” whispered Friend.
“Ha! This is the boy that wouldn’t sell us ammunition in Mrs. Bront’s store,” shouted one of the assassins. “I cursed you well then, old chap; but we’ll give you all the ammunition you want, and more’n you’ll ask for.”
Poor Friend had passed a dreadful night, (for this was now in the small hours of the morning), since he slipped down the ladder from the drill-room.
He had taken refuge in Marmor’s office, from thence fled to the street; been driven back through the rear yard, leaped Dan Lemfield’s fence, escaping a shot aimed at him, hid under a pile of railroad cross-ties in Lemfield’s yard during a dreadful hour, only then to be dragged out by three men with pistols and lanterns in their hands, searching every hiding place. They took him out upon the street, and to their commander.