The prose was delicious. From Hugh MacRae’s mouth, Waddell thought, it would have been just a litany of familiar phrases, no more emotionally riveting than a grocery list. But Waddell listened to the words, their rhythms and sounds, the resonances of ideas, and delivered the declaration with all the passion in his actor’s heart. He wound up the preamble: “‘While we recognize the authority of the United States, and will yield to it if exerted, we would not for a moment believe that it is the purpose of more than sixty millions of our own race to subject us permanently to a fate to which no Anglo-Saxon has ever been forced to submit.’ ”

The crowd roared. Waddell waited till the applause reached its crescendo, then held up a single finger to begin counting off the seven resolutions. The crowd stilled.

The resolutions were predictable. The genius lay in codifying them as articles of popular government backed by the full weight of the law. The genius was in doing it right here in court.

The first resolution called for respectable taxpayers to once again control the city’s fate. The second warned that whites stirring up Negro unrest would be summarily dealt with. The third stated that the Negro was a renegade element in the city.

Once more, Waddell had to wait for the surfy roar of the assembly to die down.

“ ‘Fourth—That the progressive element in any community is the white population and that the giving of nearly all the employment to Negro laborers has been against the best interests of this city and county.’ ”

The Red Shirts, led by Dowling, erupted in a chorus of hip-hip-hoorays.

“ ‘Fifth—That we propose in future to give to white men a large part of the employment heretofore given to Negroes.’ ”

The Red Shirts whistled and cheered.

“ ‘Sixth—’ ” Waddell continued, the first phrases lost in the din, “ ‘—we are prepared to treat the Negroes with justice and consideration—’ ”

All over the courtroom, men and women were on their feet, cheering him on. He had them. He was their hero.

“ ‘—but we are equally prepared now and immediately to enforce what we know to be our rights.’ ” He caught his breath and looked around. His heart was wild with exhilaration. He was a one-man oratorical cavalry charge. He could read the joy on their faces. Their noisy approval vibrated in his chest. This city now belonged to him.

He paused for a minute, three minutes, five whole minutes before the courtroom was quiet enough for him to continue with the last resolution. “ ‘Seven—That a climax was reached when the Negro paper of this city published an article so vile and slanderous that it would—in most communities—have resulted in the lynching of the editor.’ ”

He finished slowly, calling for the Record to be shut down for good: “ ‘We demand that Alex Manly leave this city forever—within twenty-four hours.’ ”