“Oh, where shall I go? What shall I do?” cried the distracted mother.
“You must get out of here, and that is all I can tell you,” said he, with an oath. “No use to lock your door—leave it open, I tell you, and go!”
Nearly all the colored people had, by this time, taken the advice of Judge Kanrasp, or of their fears, and fled the streets. Like timid conies, some sought the vain shelter of their homes, others that of the neighboring cornfields or river-banks and bridges, and still others fled to the surrounding country.
Doc, Watta and Sems went across the street after Kanrasp left, taking about thirty or forty men with them to the drill-room on the second floor.
About this time four colored men were seen to issue from an humble dwelling, and, with heroic purpose as their only visible weapon, they quietly made their way along the fortified streets. They were frequently halted and their business demanded, when their uniform reply was “To see Gen. Baker;” and the moral sublimity of their position seemed to impress even the conscienceless rioters, for only verbal abuse was hurled at them.
Arm-in-arm walked Gen. Justice Rives and the Methodist preacher—Elder Jackson—(visibly quaking within his spotless linen, and coat of snowy whiteness). Behind this worthy pair came Springer, the chief man of money and of business in the town, with Lem Picksley, a well-known, peaceable, and long-time resident; the best educated and best-liked citizen.
At length they found the man they sought—armed, mounted and surrounded by cavalry arranged in warlike attitude, who appeared to reverence him as their chief.
“Gen. Baker,” said Rives, “we have come to ask if there is anything we can do to make peace.”
“Nothing will satisfy me but the surrender of the men and their guns.”