“No, that’s not quite all, Sam,” said Tim Grassy. “They asked my sister, who is staying with my mother who is sick, you know, they asked her where was Springer’s money? She told them they didn’t have any. They told her she was a cursed liar. I heard that distinctly, for I felt uneasy about my sick mother, and crept back close up to the window. They staid there some time, and we heard them coming down, and I jumped over in Mrs. Dunn’s yard opposite her cow house, and stayed there till I knowed all of them was gone.” “Well, suppose we all go down to the hall and see the bodies of the dead, and then I must go home,” said Uncle Jesse. The six men walked slowly down to the old warehouse, which had been reconstructed into a hall for the use of the various secret societies of the village, of which the people of the South are so fond. There arranged in a row, were the bodies of five men; all murdered for possessing greater or less proportions of African blood, and being true to the National Government which gave them freedom—nothing more nothing less. But for these it had been no crime to pass ordinances protective of the public peace and convenience, or to enforce them—no crime to be an intelligent leader among one’s fellows—no crime to practice in the use of arms under sanction of law and the nation’s flag. The homes of these men had been completely sacked, and not a whole chair or table was left in some, on which to lay a coffin, though the wife in one had given her only bed, a poor stack of straw, to ease the removal of wounded Merry Walter to his home across the river. The body of the highly respected and beloved Watta was in his home, where a distracted widow knelt beside it comfortless; and two fatherless little ones clung to her skirts, and wept in sympathy, though ignorant of the magnitude of their loss. A large number of spectators thronged the hall and vicinity, among whom were many white people from the adjoining State of Georgia. Blacks were still denied passage by the A— police. “How many were wounded?” asked one. “Three colored and one white!” “Talk about Georgia! Talk about Georgia?” said he. “It’s all this Captain Doc and his lawless band,” said another Georgian. “This Baconsville is an awful place,” he continued, regardless of the presence, shrieks and wailings of the families of the slain, except as he must needs pause occasionally for the sounds to subside, that he might be heard. “They are all a set of thieves. It’s a very Sodom!”