Waddell held up his hand—an old cavalry habit. He drew himself up in the saddle and addressed the closed door. “Open up, in the name of the white citizens of Wilmington!”

On cue, a dismounted Red Shirt hammered at the door with a brickbat.

“We want Manly!” Waddell proclaimed.

Nobody answered.

He gave a casual signal with his left hand. The mob spit out two men in overalls, each hefting a fire ax. Taking turns, they whacked at the door until it splintered off its hinges. Inside stood a lone Negro, transfixed, wide-open mouth bubbling with saliva. A voice shouted, “Manly!” A little pistol cracked, and the Negro grabbed his neck, reeling as if he’d been punched. Then he vanished.

The mob rushed into Free Love Hall after him, but he was gone out the back. They slipped on his blood.

They smashed chairs and tables with nine-pound railroad mauls, gouged the walls with axes, shattered the windows with rifle butts and brickbats. They swarmed upstairs to the printing room and found the Hoe press. Four men heaved against it, but they could not budge it. So they overturned the drawers full of type, scattering the heavy letters across the floor. They smashed more windows, busted every piece of furniture in sight, swept carefully filed stacks of back numbers of the Record off the shelves, then pulled down the shelves. Swinging axes and mauls, they pulverized two typewriters, a beer mug filled with sharpened pencils, an old desk, and a glass paperweight.

Mike Dowling was so caught up in the melee that, by the time he finished smashing things, the Winchester in his hand had a broken stock and a bent barrel. He flung it away, gave a bloodcurdling rebel yell, and crawled out the window toward The Record Publishing Company sign. Hands gripped him by the belt as, swimming in thin air, he tore it loose from its chains and flung it down into the street. The mob axed it into kindling.

Downstairs, two Red Shirts discovered a storage closet. They smashed the padlock with a maul and raked cans of kerosene and turpentine off the shelves. Other men shouldered them aside, grabbed the kerosene and turpentine, and doused the broken furniture. Somebody struck a match. The men upstairs barely got out as the flames flared into the rafters.

Outside Free Love Hall, Waddell was furious. The mob was out of control. They had come to get Manly, and Manly had fled. Somebody had already been shot—what had become of him? Was he Alex Manly? Other men were firing freely into the flames. “Call the fire brigade!” he yelled to one of Dowling’s men, who merely grinned at him and popped off another round.

Solly Fishblate found Waddell. “I’ve put in a call to the Negro fire brigade!” he shouted.

“Can’t you do something about these Red Shirts?”

“Should have thought of that before.”