Walker Taylor took the block and a half to Third Street in long strides. He turned north another two blocks to First Presbyterian Church. With a key, he let himself in a back door, leaving it unlocked behind him. When he lectured Sunday school in the community hall of this church, as many as a hundred people would gather to listen. Boys and girls, but also full-grown men. Rough men. He could talk to them all.

Here was the place he had started his Boys Brigade—saving bad boys from falling into the gutter. Every July, he took them to Camp George, at the mouth of the river, near Southport. Only the boys who attended four weeks of lessons in a row were allowed to go. The boys adored him. They slept in tents and fished off the beach and told stories around driftwood campfires. They came home lean and brown, their little souls sturdier. He did it for them. They were his mission.

In the sacristy, Walker Taylor waited in the dark.

Within minutes, the other men drifted in: Fennell, Beery, Meares, Robertson, Smith. Walker Taylor lit a beeswax candle. It smelled sweet in the musty air.

“Rountree did a fine job procuring the thing,” Beery said. “Quite a show on the river.”

“It stays at the armory,” Walker Taylor said. “The Wilmington Light Infantry have charge of it.”

“But as commander of the State Guard—”

Walker Taylor nodded. “Right. In a crisis, they answer to me.”

Fennell said, “I don’t like Dan Russell coming down here to give a goddamn speech.” Nobody said anything, but they all were embarrassed by cursing in the sacristy. “Nor Dockery, nor Pritchard.”

“I don’t see what we can do,” Walker Taylor said. “It’s a free country.”

Fennell persisted. “But it will stir everybody up before it’s time.”

“Maybe we should just give our own speech,” Smith said.

“Who could set the right tone?” Beery said. “It would have to be the right tone.”

“Get ’em riled up, but keep the lid on.”

“Right,” Walker Taylor said. “Let me talk to George. He mentioned someone.”

“Waddell,” Beery said. “That old warhorse. That’s who he wants.”

Walker Taylor said, “Well see. We’ll just see.”

“I like it,” Smith said. “He can put fire in their bellies.”

“He’ll give us a stemwinder,” Robertson said, “if anybody can do it.”

“Man can hold a crowd,” Beery said. “You better believe it.”

Meares, who had not yet spoken, said, “You’re playing with fire.”

Beery said, “You want Colonel Taylor to be mayor, don’t you? Isn’t that what we want?”

The men all agreed that this was so.

“We’ve got to push,” Beery said. “Not too hard, but not too soft, either.”

Walker Taylor thought about being mayor. A man could accomplish a lot of good for people. In this town, a lot of things needed doing. He could do them—he and his army of good boys. “We’ve got to keep the Red Shirts in line,” he said.