Moore had stopped by Waddell’s house as a courtesy the previous evening. During the War Between the States, he had served with Waddell in the Forty-first Regiment of the Third North Carolina Cavalry. Moore had been commissioned a major on the same day Waddell had received his colonelcy. When Waddell had become ill, Moore had taken over command of the regiment.

Waddell figured a command post was a good place for Colonel Moore this morning—one less chief to contend with. Let him wait there until they sent him his orders.

When the assembled mob caught sight of Waddell, MacRae, and the other committee men, they cheered and pressed closer toward the armory, waiting for the word. The mob parted to let the leaders ascend the marble steps and enter the armory.

Standing just inside the thick double doors, the MacRae brothers conferred briefly. Donald was still technically in command of the Light Infantry men who had volunteered for the Cuban campaign but never gotten there.

“Form up your men,” Hugh MacRae said without any inflection. His voice resounded in the high space. Waddell and J. Allan Taylor stood to either side.

Sam Jenks, loitering a step behind, said, “I don’t get it. You’re going to use force? But—”

“Keep quiet,” MacRae said. “It’s time to make a point.”

Donald MacRae hesitated and rubbed his sharp chin. “I still hold my commission in the U.S. Army, Hugh,” he said. “There may be ramifications.”

J. Allan Taylor said, “He’s right, Hugh—they could court-martial him for this. It would give them a pretext to send the federals down.”

“Goddamnit!” Hugh MacRae said. “Why didn’t you say something yesterday?”

“It didn’t occur to me yesterday.”

“Get Colonel Moore on the telephone.”

The telephone hung on the wall in the meeting parlor just off the corridor. They clustered around it while MacRae rang Moore’s house. He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t there, Waddell reflected: MacRae must not know about the command post.

Next, they rang Moore’s office, but of course he wasn’t there, either. Waddell knew that Colonel Moore was barely two blocks away, waiting by a telephone for this very call, but he didn’t say anything. MacRae hung up, looking baffled. His hair was mussed, and there was soot on the sleeve of his tweed coat where he’d rubbed against the fireplace mantel.

“Get Walker on the telephone,” J. Allan Taylor suggested. “Christ, why isn’t he here already?”

MacRae rang him at home. “Walk? We’ve got a situation here. Come on over and straighten us out. We need a good officer out front.” Then he listened, pressing the earpiece hard against his pink ear.

“What’s he giving you?” J. Allan Taylor said. “Let’s get on with this.”