"The Fifth must be there now--"
"The Fifth?--what are they--two hundred men against two thousand?--Lord
knows how it will end. I hope this old town won't be burnt, that's all."
The boy, listening, turned fearfully around, looking with distended eyes
into mine. "Come on," I responded, and we spoke no more until we reached
Liberty Street. Then, all at once, above the street noises--the rumbling
of fugitive vehicles, the jingle of street-cars, and the hum of excited
voices--rose a deep, hollow roar; a horrible sound of human menace in
it, which was distinguishable even at that distance. The boy pressed
closer, clutching timidly at my hand.
"Is yer--is yer gwine ter keep on?" he faltered.
"De ole gentlemun, he 'lowed puticler you wa'n't to run no resk 'count
o' him."
"Where _is_ he?" I asked. "In the thick of it?"
"No, sir; he's lay'n' down in a little alley--clean off d' street."
"Come on, then; you'll have to show me where it is. I won't let you get
hurt."
When we first wheeled into South Eutaw Street, I was conscious of an
almost painful stillness, more noticeable after the tumult of confused
sounds from which we had just emerged. The houses either side were fast
closed, doors and windows Some of them were even unlighted, and not
vehicle was in sight. The street was partially unpaved, where new
gas-pipes had been laid, and piles of paving-stones were heaped on the
edge of the sidewalks. The place seemed deserted.
But presently, far down in the immediate vicinity of the depot, I
perceived accumulated a dense, dark mass, like a low-hanging cloud, from
which a low hoarse murmur seemed to proceed. It swayed slightly from
side to side, with the inevitable motion of a large crowd, while at the
same time it kept well within certain bounds. We walked quickly along,
block after block, without encountering a single soul. I had been so
engrossed with the dark, muttering pulsation in front, that I failed to
attend to the sounds from behind, until the boy, jerking my hand, bade
me listen to the drum. I heard it then plainly, as soon as he spoke, and
the approaching tramp of disciplined feet was soon after distinctly
audible. I turned and looked. The Fifth Regiment was marching down the
middle of North Eutaw Street, having not yet crossed Baltimore Street,
the drum corps in front, the colors flying, and crowding the sidewalks
on either hand was a motley van and bodyguard, consisting of street
loafers and half-grown boys, who had come along to see the "fun," and
whose sympathies were plainly with the rioters. The foremost of these
soon reached the spot where I stood, and as I drew aside to let them
pass, I heard a _gamin_ say to his neighbor:
"I say, Bill, these yere putty little soldier-boys hadn't better make
ther las' will an' testyment--ain't it?'"
"I dunno 'bout that," replied the other, a veteran of fourteen, who was
chewing tobacco, and whom I recognized as a certain one-eyed newsboy.
"These yere men hez fought in the late war, yer see, plenty of 'um, an'
you bet they don't carry no bokays on _ther_ bayonits."
As the column advanced, I glanced anxiously toward the human sea down
yonder. At first, no additional movement could be detected, then, as the
drums approached nearer, a quick stir, like a sudden gust, struck its
troubled waters; the hoarse, horrible cry tore raggedly through the
summer air. And then I hastily drew the terrified child with me into the
shade of a receding doorway--for the mad flood came raving over its
bounds toward us.
The mob was mostly composed of men in their working-clothes, with bare
arms and gaunt, haggard faces. There were some women among
them--wretched, half-starved creatures--who kept shrieking like furies
all the time. As the regiment, still moving resolutely onward,
approached within a few yards of them, there fell the first volley of
stones, accompanied with hoots and jeers of derision.
"Thuz only two hundred of 'um, boys," shouted a rough voice. "They'll
run quick enough if you give it to 'um good," and a second shower of
missiles fell into the ranks, the mob arming themselves with the
paving-stones at hand.
But the little band of soldiers did not once falter, although here and
there in their ranks you could discover a man leaning against a comrade,
who gave him support as they moved on together. The crowd seemed a
little dashed. The dispersion of the Sixth Regiment had been such a mere
bagatelle, and their own number had, since then, been re-enforced by
half the professional rowdies in town. They redoubled their cries,
which, from jeers, now became shouts of rage and mortification.
"Wot are you 'bout? Give it to 'um _good_, I tell yer. They daresn't
fire," howled the same brawny giant who had spoken before.
As they continued the attack, a pistol-shot could be heard now and then
from the crowd. The regiment did not return the fire, but as the mob
pressed closer, an order from the front was passed along the line.
"Fix bayonets."
The opposing parties were now only a few feet apart, and a rain of
stones was falling so thick and fast as to darken the air, when all at
once I saw the colonel's sword flash out, the blunt edge striking one of
the rioters who was pressing on him.
"Clear the way, there!" he cried.
Then, wheeling and facing his command, his voice rang out, clear as a
bugle;
"A--r--m--s, 'port! Double-time, march! Ch--ar--ge, bayonets! Hurrah!
Give 'em a yell, boys, and you can do it," added the colonel.
I cannot describe the shout which followed--a clear, ringing, organized
whoop; fresh and vibrant; of a perfectly distinct quality from the
hoarse, undisciplined howl of the mob--sounding cool and terrible, like
the cry of an avenging angel.
The mob turned and fled, appalled, melting away like wax before the blue
flame of the glittering bayonets, and the regiment entered the depot.
Then I took time to breathe, and remembered Thomas.
"He ain't fur f'om yere," said the boy. "Right 'roun' d' corner."
And we passed out of the shelter of the doorway to a small, dirty alley,
about twenty-five yards distant, where I found the old man resting
against a lamp-post, the blood streaming down his face from a ghastly
wound in the head, and his eyes closed. I made the boy get some water,
and after bathing his face for a few moments, I succeeded in rousing
him.
"Is that you, Mist' Dunkin?" he asked, faintly.
"Yes. How do you feel, Thomas?"
"Dey's tuhibul times down-street," he gasped. "I like to got kilt."
A pause.
"Dey 'lowed dey wanted dem daih papehs--an'--dey didn't git
'um--an'--den--den dey hit me side de hade--with a brickbat--an' I come
'long tell I git yeah--an' den, disha boy he come 'long--"