“I’m going to the drill-room.” “You can’t go.” A brief parley resulted in a repetition of the prohibition, “I tell you, you can’t go, and you may as well go back!” emphasized with an oath. “All right,” and the colored man walked back. Soon another attempted to pass on the opposite side of the way. “Where are you going?” shouted Baker. “Going about my business!” (A fearful oath). “You’d better go back, or I’ll shoot you!” The young man retreated precipitately, and hid in a back yard. Soon after this the attack opened, and Mann Harris sat in a back room of his home, listening to the terrible sounds for hours; or with unshod feet crept across the floor lest a footfall might be heard by some lurking foe, and watched the flashing of guns from the windows of the armory. Then followed the booming of cannon. “Good God!” he exclaimed, “we is all done killed! They will shoot down every house in the town! But I’ll have to take it as it comes.” He heard the shout, “Here they come! Here they come!” and heard Baker and his friends fire upon the negroes as they crossed the street, and Doc’s men fire in return. Four times after this the cannon shook the windows, as it belched forth its canister, and sent terror through the town and surrounding country. The sound of small arms continued in various parts of the village, while the debauched desperadoes sought their victims in their hiding-places. Then the familiar stentorian voice of John Carr, crying, “Oh Lord! Oh Lord!” and the succeeding volley which silenced it, struck terror into the poor man’s soul, and he fell upon his knees alone in the darkened room, and with forehead upon the floor, and trembling in every limb, he whispered, “God Almighty, I’m an awful bad man! I a’n’t prepared to die. Oh, save me, Jesus Christ!” The discharge of firearms nearly ceased, at length, but was succeeded by loud shouts and sounds of violence and cursing, the shrieks of women, and the cries of little children, and the alarm of fire—for the ruffians dragged the helpless innocents from their houses, some of which they set on fire, in their zeal to arrest every ‘nigger’ and ‘radical.’ Harris’ house, and that of General Rives, joined and communicated by folding doors: indeed, were only different apartments of the same dwelling. The sound of numerous heavy feet was soon heard upon the porch. A blow, and Rives’ door flew open. The occupants had fled, but the shouts and oaths, the heavy blows, and cracking furniture, and crashing crockery and glass, told that “the white-livered Judge” was no exception when Republicans must suffer. “Oh laws!” said Harris, mentally, “from the sound of that smashing up of things and going on, I feel pretty bad myself! Though they has done all the shooting niggers in the street, the next turn will be mine, shor!”