“Now, Jesse,” said Den Bardun, “we’ve been stooped mighty nigh double all our lives, and our fathers and grandfathers before us, and some of their backs is getting stiff. It’s well enough to make a bow, but some folks don’t enjoy being rid over, and I reckon yo’r one.”
“I can’t stay to hear yo’ talk, and if yo’ a’n’t men enough to go and help yo’ neighbors when they is getting jist slayed, I’m gwine to find some men somewhar; and if ever yo’ wants help like us, to save yo’ life and property, maybe yo’ll get it. I hope so,” and Sterns hastened away.
Uncle Jesse paced up and down the room for some moments, with his arms folded and his chin upon his breast; while Den Bardun leaned against the door-post, and watched alternately this neighbor and the chickens a hen was endeavoring to call into a coop in which she was confined near the door.
“It seems hard! It does seem hard!” said Roome, without raising his eyes from the floor, “and it seems cruel like, I know it does. But it is right! I know it is right! and I feel it right in my breast,” looking up with an assured manner, and striking his broad chest with his palms. “Sit down, Den, sit down. What do you think about this doings?”
“I believe it’s a mighty hard affair, and I’m afraid it’s a big one; and I don’t believe it’s all about the 4th of July scrape, either. It’s more like the democratic party, and they’re playing off that it’s the militia.”
“What makes you think so, Dan?”
“Well, Deacon Atwood, he says to me the other day, says he, “All the officers of the Republican party has got to be killed out, shor;” and I asked him what for?”
“Was he talking of the colored officers or of all of ’em?”
White and black, making no exceptions. He says, “we’re going to have this election, and the only way we can get it, will be to kill out the leading men, and then the ignorant men will do right.”