Capt. Sweargen, [the same who menaced Mr. Springer during the last conference held with Gen. Baker previous to the commencement of active hostilities], withdrew and organized his court, and soon returned to the “dead ring,” and gave the following elegant military order. “All you black scamps, get up here; we’re going to carry you to the county seat, and put you in jail.” “No; we’ll start for there, but we’ll lose them on the road,” said a bystander. “That’s it,” said another, “we’ll leave them in the swamp.” “Come on, boys, come on this way, we’ll attend to the—s,” said Capt. S—, and the ring and crowd moved down the street about twenty yards. “Halt! Now all you blasted niggers, sit down!” “Capt. Sweargen! Capt. Sweargen!” said Mann Harris, “As yo’ are the Captain of this killin’, I will ask yo’ to save my life.” “You hush; yo’ talk too much, you great big nigger you,” said one of the crowd. “I’m gwoine to talk. It’s life or death for me, an’ I’m gwoine to talk for my life.” “Captain! Captain! Oh, don’t let them kill me!” said Sam Henry. “I’ve allus been a industrious and honest fellow, and ha’n’t never hurt nobody, nor stole, nor nothin’.” “Yes, but you’re a blamed Republican, and so is all the rest of yo’, and that’s enough. We’ll carry South Carolina Democratic now, about the time we kill four or five hundred of yo’ voting niggers. This is only the beginning of it. We’ve got to have South Carolina, and these clubs has got to go through the State.” “Yes,” added another, “the white man has got to rule here. This is a white man’s government.” The excitement was again increasing, and all talked at once on this topic, on which alone all seemed to agree. “Now, men, we’ve got this court-martial, and must proceed according to military law,” shouted Captain S. “There a’n’t no law,” cried a voice. “The law has run out at the end of a hundred years, and there a’n’t no constitution neither.” “There a’n’t no court in South Carolina that can try us anyhow,” said another. “That’s so! That’s so!” resounded through the crowd. “Hello! Hurrah! here comes another nigger! Got Capt. Doc this time? Capt. Doc! Capt. Doc!” (with oaths), rang through the swaying mob which surrounded the dead ring, as a posse from the General’s headquarters advanced with the new victim. Not without difficulty a way was opened for the conveyance of—not Captain Doc (who was watching and listening attentively at the Cook street end of the verandah, and not twenty paces from the spot), but a good faced boy, yet in his teens. His eyes rolled wildly about, he trembled violently, and his breath came quick and short, though without a sound. “Oh, Friend Robbins,” said Watta, “I’m sorry they have got you? Your widowed mother and the children need your support. Where is Joey? (the company’s drummer-boy).” “I don’t know,” whispered Friend.