“Oh, lynch him!” yelled a shrill voice. “Lynch him, an’ have done with it. He deserves it!”
“No, tar an’ feather him an’ send him where Old Abe sent Vallandigham, down among his rebel friends!” cried another.
People were crowding into the little lobby of the post-office, attracted by the sound of angry voices, curious to see and hear, ready for any sensation that might befall. Up near the box-window, white with anger, not with fear, stood Rhett Bannister with clenched hands. In front of him were a score of indignant men, ready at the next instant, if wrought to it, to do him bodily harm.
Then old Jeremiah Holloway, the postmaster, puffing and perspiring with his three hundred pounds, came out from his side door and rapped against the wall with his cane.
“This won’t do, gentlemen!” he said. “I can’t have a riot in a govament post-office. You’ll have to git outside an’ have your fun if you want it. I ain’t protectin’ no copperheads. But I’m goin’ to protect my property an’ Uncle Sam’s if I have to knock down every one of you. Besides, the stage’s a-comin’ an’ you got to make way for the United States mail.”
Holloway’s appeal for the protection of his property might or might not have had the desired effect, but his announcement of the arrival of the stage called the attention of the crowd to the approach of a four-horse vehicle, already half-way down the square, and people surged out to meet it. For by the stage came papers, letters from the seat of war, sometimes soldiers on furlough, and this afternoon it brought also the speaker of the day, an eloquent young lawyer from the county town, who had already seen service at the front. The band struck up a patriotic air and marched, playing, across to the platform on the green, followed by the girls and boys. The older people remained at the post-office to get their mail. Passengers by stage confirmed the news of the victory at Gettysburg, hotly fought for, dearly bought, but a victory nevertheless. They also brought more definite rumors of Grant’s probable success at Vicksburg. The letters were distributed and delivered. There were few from the front. The boys who were with Meade had had no opportunity to write that week. But the newspapers were already in the hands of eager readers, men with pale faces, women with pounding hearts.
“Listen to this!” said Adam Johns, the schoolmaster. “Here’s what the Tribune says: ‘Pickett’s division of Longstreet’s corps crossed the plain in splendid marching order, driving our skirmishers before them. At the Emmitsburg road they met the first serious resistance. But they stormed the stone fence which formed our barricade, and swept on up the hill under a galling fire from our rifles in front and our artillery on their flank, closing in and marching over their thousands of fallen, up into and over our shallow rifle-pits, overpowering our troops, not only by the momentum, but as well by the daring of their desperate charge. And that charge was met by resistance just as stubborn, by bravery as great, by daring as magnificent. From this moment the fighting was terrible. They were on our guns, bayoneting our gunners, waving their flags above our pieces, yelling the victory they believed they had won. But now came the crisis. They had gone too far, they had penetrated too deeply into our lines. They had exposed themselves to a storm of grape and canister from our guns on the western slope of Cemetery Hill, and, Pettigrew’s supporting division having broken and fled, our flanking columns began to close in on their rear. Then came twenty minutes of the bloodiest fighting of the war. Gaylord’s regiment of Pennsylvania farmers struck Pickett’s extreme left and doubled and crushed it in a fierce encounter. But it was done at an awful sacrifice. Brackett’s company alone lost twenty-three of its men, and every sergeant, and Brackett himself was killed in a hand-to-hand encounter with a rebel rifleman—’”
The reader paused, lifted his eyes, and looked fearfully around the little room, peering into the strained faces turned toward him.
“She ain’t here,” said a voice from the crowd.
“God help Martha Brackett!” added another.