Hurrahs, cheers, applause. The walls and ceiling vibrated with human noise.

“ ‘If the demand is agreed to within twelve hours, we counsel forbearance on the part of all white men.’ ” Pause. “ ‘If, however, the demand is refused, or if no answer is given within the time mentioned, then the editor, Manly, will be expelled by force.’ So say we all!”

Even Waddell was not prepared for the ovation that now cascaded over him. The sheer force of it bowed his head and pushed him back physically into the bench. The men from the jury box crowded around him, pummeling his back and wringing his hand.

Before he knew what was happening, a contingent of Red Shirts mobbed the bench and lifted him onto their shoulders. They paraded him back and forth before the bench, then carried him up and down the aisles, where men and women reached out to shake his hand, pat him on the back, kiss him, thump his shoulders, touch him. He was breathless, filled with a rapture of adoration, scared to death of being torn limb from limb.

Solomon Fishblate was momentarily dismayed. Had Waddell known about the declaration all along? No, he couldn’t have. He just had that dumb actor’s luck. He could walk through hellfire and come out with a lit cigar. Fishblate used the confusion to collect his wits, then once again seized the moment. “I propose an eighth resolution!” he called from the bench, over and over, until at last the crowd realized he was speaking and gradually quieted.

The Red Shirts gently lowered Waddell back onto his feet. He was as startled as anybody, for the first time in his life at a loss for words. He had gotten what he’d come for. Dumbly, he stretched out his hand, indicating that Fishblate should continue.

“I move that Mayor Wright, Chief of Police J. R. Melton, and the entire Board of Aldermen be notified to vacate immediately!”

“Hear, hear!”

“Throw the rascals out!”

“No more nigger lovers in city hall!”

A minor din ensued. George Rountree saw the opening he had been waiting for. He jumped up and asked to be recognized. Waddell, still in a mild euphoric stupor, obliged. “I move we appoint a committee of five to take Mr. Fishblate’s resolution under consideration.”

MacRae’s men, eager to brake the frenzied momentum of the Waddell-Fishblate faction, approved. Rountree was appointed chairman, and four others were quickly called to join him.

While they retired to the judge’s chambers to deliberate, Waddell spoke again to the courtroom. The euphoria was wearing off now, and he was a little frightened of what he had set in motion. “Let us not be hasty in resorting to violent measures,” he said without his previous fire. “The editor of the Record will be dealt with.”