Stealthily Capt. Doc now crept between the corn-stalks diagonally to the left, till he reached and entered Marmor’s printing office, which was, like the Justice’s office, connected with his dwelling. Here he remained an hour or more, supposing himself to be alone, and listened to the sounds of violence without, and of many men coming over the long bridge from the city, whooping and yelling like demons. Then came blows upon the front door of the office, threatening its destruction, and our Captain made his exit through the one at the rear. When Lieut. Watta had “controlled off” more than half the men who escaped from the armory, he took them right into the teeth of the enemy. At once the little squad was scattered in every direction, in their own expressive dialect, “squandered;” but most of them soon rendezvoused in Marmor’s printing office, entering at the back door, as Doc and his men had done. “Boys, let’s run out. They’ll ketch us here, shor,” suggested one of the party, and opened the front door, but quickly and noiselessly closed it again, as the foe were numerous there. “If you go that way, you’ll get killed,” said the Lieutenant; and all immediately ran out at the back door, and secreted themselves in the yards and under the houses; all but Corporal Free, who crept under a counter in the office. When the door was eventually broken in, and the mob proceeded to demolish the machinery and whatever else they could find, a fragment struck the wall, and, rebounding, threatened the concealed head of the Corporal, who dodged, and thus revealed his presence. “Hello! There’s a great nigger poking his head out,” exclaimed the rioters. “I surrender! I surrender,” cried the poor fellow, as they dragged him out. “Where is Gen. Baker? Where is Gen. Baker?” “Who is this?” asked one of the white men, pausing in his work of demolition, and approaching where the light of their lantern fell upon the face of their captive. “Why it’s John Free. Don’t yo’ know me?—de man dat libed neighbor to yo’, Tom Sutter, for a year or mo’?” replied the prisoner. “I’m John Free, John Free. _Yo’_ know I’m a honest man as don’t do nobody no harm. I wants to see Gen. Baker.” “—— —— you!” said the white man Tom Sutter, looking down into the dark face, “you’re one of Capt. Doc’s militia-men, first corporal. We’ll fix _you_ to-night.” “Oh, please send Gen. Baker to me if yo’ please. He is a high-toned gem’man, I’ve heard ’em say, and he won’t let any of his men hurt a prisoner dat surrenders. I tell yo’ I surrender! I surrender!” “You go to ——! We’re going to fix you pretty soon;” and beating him with their guns, they dragged him out at the front door, and down Main and Market streets, to a place where fifty or sixty ruffians (“the good people of South Carolina”) stood shoulder to shoulder in a circle, and backed by a crowd of hundreds, were guarding thirty or forty other unarmed captives.