In the circle behind the podium, Hugh MacRae’s face filled with blood. He hadn’t counted on the old warhorse taking such complete control. Kenan looked to the exits, fearing a riot, wondering how they would get the women out before they were trampled. Rountree cursed himself out loud, though in the din no one could hear him. He should never have let this happen. They were going to tear down the hall and then march on Brooklyn, murdering and burning. Their careful plans had just been pulverized by an old-time barnburner. Walker Taylor was so stunned by the clamor he could not think straight. He wrung his big hands and hoped to God that Dowling and his men were not still lingering outside to lead the riot.

At length, Colonel Waddell held up his hand for silence, and got it.

“The time for smooth words has gone by. The extremest limit of forbearance has been reached. Negro domination,” he said with a last, breathless pause, “shall henceforth be only a shameful memory!”

All at once, in the new clamor of applause and shouting, Sam realized that Gray Ellen was gone. He sprang up in time to see her disappearing into the crowd at the exit. He shouldered his way through the press of people and kept her in sight all the way down the stairs.

On the street, the cool air slapped him out of his daze. Gray Ellen had stopped under a street lamp at the foot of the steps.

“Gray!” he called, but his voice was lost in the noise of the crowd. He shoved his way toward her. She climbed the pediment of the street lamp and swung around it, holding on with one hand. She cupped the other hand in front of her mouth and began to shout. At first, Sam couldn’t hear what she was shouting. Then, as he got closer, her words floated across the heads of the people beginning to mob the sidewalk.

She swung and shouted, tears streaming down her dirty face. “You lost the War!” she shouted, swinging around the pole.

People looked up. “She’s drunk,” somebody said.

“Can’t you get it through your heads? You lost the goddamn War!” Her black hair was coming undone, falling around her face.

“Look at that black hair!” a man shouted. “You got painted with the tarbrush, did you, honey? Nigger in the family woodpile?” His companions laughed. Sam knocked the man down, and he disappeared under the tangle of feet.

She kept swinging and crying and shouting, “Don’t you get it? You lost the War!”

Mike Dowling rode by, wheeled his horse in a tight circle, and shouted into her face, “Maybe we did, sweetheart—but we’ll sure win this election!”