Others took turns delivering brief orations endorsing the declaration. Within a half-hour, the committee of five returned. Rountree had reworded Fishblate’s amendment to keep it within the law. Now, the mayor, police chief, and Board of Aldermen were charged with “being a constant menace to the peace and welfare of this community.” Therefore, they would be notified that they ought to resign.

The best men of the community lined up at the bench to affix their signatures to the completed declaration. In addition to the party in the jury box, almost half those present in the courthouse—445 white men—signed, including Walker and J. Allan Taylor, Mike Dowling, Tom Clawson, the Reverend Peyton Hoge, Captain Thomas James, and William Rand Kenan. Virtually every prominent name in town was represented: Bellamy, Bryan, Cameron, Collier, Corbett, Davis, deRosset, Duke, French, Mayo, Moore, Nutt, Rivenbark, Savage, Worth, Yopp.

Conspicuous by their absence were other names: Keith, Foster, Sprunt, Chadbourn, Calabash, Jenks.

When the courtroom at last began to empty, Hugh MacRae’s Secret Nine, Waddell, Fishblate, and Rountree remained behind.

Rountree said, “We had better present this to a delegation from the Negro community right away, or it will lose force.”

“Exactly right,” Waddell said. “Round up some niggers that can read.”

Rountree said, “Summon them to meet a duly appointed committee.”

“I’ve got a committee in mind, George,” Waddell said. He had a lot to say about things now. He put an arm around Hugh MacRae. “Hugh, will you serve?”

MacRae recognized Waddell’s invitation as a peace offering for the stunt he had pulled earlier. It was not enough, but it was a start—Waddell wasn’t forgetting who was in charge of this show. “Certainly I’ll serve.”

They haggled for another fifteen minutes. In the end, Waddell’s committee included all of MacRae’s Secret Nine. But not George Rountree.

Sam Jenks and Harry Calabash had watched the whole thing from front-row seats. On his way out of the courthouse, Waddell waved Sam over. “We’ll need a neutral observer. Get your pencil ready.” Harry started to say something, but Waddell cut him off. “One observer will be sufficient.” He looped an arm around Sam’s neck and escorted him up the aisle toward the door.

It was unprecedented that a delegation of Negroes be ushered into the Cape Fear Club through the front door. It was Waddell’s idea: bring them into the big house, let them see firsthand the world they were up against. MacRae made sure to decorate the foyer and front parlor with two squads from the Wilmington Light Infantry in full kit—just in case.

Among the thirty-two black leaders rounded up by Bowling’s Red Shirts and escorted to the meeting were barber Carter Peamon, pawnbroker Tom Miller, lawyers Armond Scott and W. E. Henderson, and Jim Telfair of the Record. The others included a postal clerk, a butcher, a coal dealer, two undertakers, several laborers, and an alderman, Elijah Green. Only one minister, Sam noticed. There were key faces missing: the Manlys, most obviously, but also John Norwood, the Reverend J. Allen Kirk, the other ministers. Probably they were unavailable on such short notice. The Red Shirts had cast their net and dragged in whomever they caught.