Quick as thought the rider’s whip cut a smart gash upon the dusky cheek.
The chivalrous Gen. Baker, looking on, took out his own pocket handkerchief, and wiped the perspiration from his own face, while the unoffending mulatto wiped the blood from his; and Springer’s unflinching eye arrested the hand of another of the General’s aids, as he was about to send a bullet through his (Springer’s) brain.
Neither the attack nor menace elicited rebuke nor notice from the “high-toned” General, who disdainfully turned and rode away.
“If we will box the guns up,” said Rives, following him, “and return them to the Governor, will that be satisfactory?”
“—— the Governor! I am not here as the Governor of South Carolina, nor his agent, but as General Baker!”
“Well, we are sorry if there is nothing we can do to make peace, General, but (turning to his companions) we must return without it, and each do the best he can for himself.”
“Here’s Ned O’Bran,” said Springer in an undertone, “Brother Jackson, you had better go with him, for his house is outside of the picket lines; and as you’re a member of the Legislature, you must look out—they’ll be after you shor.”
“I was just going down to the drill room to be safe myself,” said O’Bran. “My family went on so that I am on my way back to the armory.”
“You can’t get through this way. The pickets are everywhere. You had best go home. It’s every man for himself, and the Lord for us all,” said Springer, and the men separated.