There came an unusual rumor from North Carolina. It was said that Negro insurgents there had burnt Wilmington, massacred its inhabitants, and that 2,000 were then marching on Raleigh. This was not true but there was a plot worked out by twenty-four Negroes who had extended their operations into Duplin, Sampson, Wayne, New Hanover, and Lenoir Counties. The plot having been revealed by a free Negro, the militia was called out in time to prevent the carrying out of these well-laid plans. Raleigh and Fayetteville were put under military defence. Many arrests were made, several whipped and released and three of the leaders executed. One of these, a very intelligent Negro preacher named David, was convicted on the testimony of another Negro.[13] The excitement in other States was not much less than in Virginia and North Carolina. In South Carolina Governor Hayne issued a proclamation to quiet rumors of similar uprisings. In Macon, Georgia, the entire population rose at midnight, roused from their beds by rumors of an impending onslaught. Slaves were arrested and tied to trees in different parts of the State, while captains of the militia delighted in hacking at them with swords. In Alabama, rumors of a joint conspiracy of Indians and Negroes found ready credence. At New Orleans the excitement was at such a height that a report that 1,200 stands of arms were found in a black man's house, was readily believed.[14] But the people were not satisfied with this flow of blood and passions were not subdued with these public wreakings. Nat Turner was still at large. He had eluded their constant vigilance ever since the day of the raid in August. That he was finally captured was more the result of accident than of design. A dog belonging to some of Nat Turner's acquaintances scented some meat in the cave and stole it one night while Turner was out. Shortly after, two Negroes, one the owner of the dog, were hunting with the same animal. The dog barked at Turner who had just gone out to walk. Thinking himself discovered, Turner begged these men to conceal his whereabouts, but they, on finding out who it was, precipitately fled. Concluding from this that they would betray him, Turner left his hiding place, but he was pursued almost incessantly. At one time he was shot at by one Francis near a fodder stack in a field, but happening to fall at the moment of the discharge, the contents of the pistol passed through the crown of his hat. The lines, however, were closing upon Turner. His escape from Francis added new enthusiasm to the pursuit and Turner's resources as fertile as ever contrived a new hiding place in a sort of den in the lap of a fallen tree over which he placed fine brush. He protruded his head as if to reconnoiter about noon, Sunday, October 30, when a Benjamin Phipps, who had that morning for the first time turned out in pursuit, came suddenly upon him. Phipps not knowing him, demanded: