When Gabrielle had gone, Bessie went back to preparing the porkchops. “Living with the whitefolks,” she said to the empty kitchen, shaking her head. It was a long way from the cotton fields. “The world sure turning topsy-turvy.”

Except that this time Gray Ellen was not with him, and that he was sitting on the stage behind Waddell, Sam had a strong sense of déjà vu. Thalian Hall was once again packed with white faces—mostly men. There were fewer women than previously. Several orators spoke as the crowd filtered in, boisterous, joshing, making the most of the fun. From this new vantage point, the hall seemed intimate, a fancy parlor. He was astonished that he could recognize so many faces so clearly so far into the back rows.

Waddell again waited for the house to quiet completely before speaking. He knew he was the man they had all come to hear. Once again, he played their emotions perfectly. His speech was the same as before, the same one he had been delivering all over the state at rallies and barbecues, changing it only slightly, honing the metaphors, injecting local anecdotes.

“Men, the crisis is upon us!” he declared, then waited a whole minute for the uproar of applause and cheers to die down. “This city, the county, and the Old North State shall be rid of Negro domination—once and forever!” Again, a din of cheers, men banging their fists on the arms of their seats.

His voice took on a measured tone. “You have the courage. You are brave. You are the sons of noble ancestry.” They murmured assent.

“You are Anglo-Saxons. You are armed and prepared, and you will do your duty.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Be ready at a moment’s notice. Go to the polls tomorrow, and if you find the Negro out voting, tell him to leave the polls! And if he refuses—”

Murmuring, angry muttering, a rebel yell.

“—kill him! Shoot him down in his tracks!” He banged his fist on the podium.

The hall exploded in whoops and cheers. Was this just hyperbole? Sam wondered. Or did the Colonel honestly expect them all to come out shooting tomorrow? Hyperbole, he decided—an orator’s trick. Otherwise, the notion was just too far-fetched. They were, after all, on the verge of the twentieth century. Sam checked his watch: five minutes passed this time before the Colonel could continue. Tonight, he was going to burn the place down.

“We shall win tomorrow, if we have to do it with guns.” He pivoted and pointed his finger like a pistol. “Let every man go to the polls ready and willing to rule or die.”

Another uproar of assent. Then it got very quiet. Sam could see only Waddell’s back, his erect posture, the black clawhammer coat draped perfectly, without a single wrinkle. The silver head shimmering in the limelight.