Sam was scared in his stomach. This mob had an air of premeditation—it was no spontaneous lynching party. These men had waited all night for this moment. Some had been waiting weeks. The inflammatory articles in the newspapers, the rousing hate speeches, the bogus election—everything had been moving toward this. And Sam’s job was to write the story.

The infantrymen and several squads of Naval Reserves stood in loose formation in the side yard, checking their weapons.

Hugh MacRae said, “Captain James, if you please.”

Captain James turned on his heel, looking puzzled.

“Captain MacRae requests you take command of this operation.”

Captain James backed up a step, glanced sidelong at the mob, looked to Donald MacRae for some explanation. Donald MacRae stood with his brother and said nothing. “What, me lead that mob?” Captain James said.

The MacRaes nodded. The blood rose in Captain James’s face. Automatically, he braced himself at attention. “I am a soldier,” he said. “I won’t lead a mob.”

Sam scribbled James’s reply in his notebook—he wanted to get it right. He understood it immediately to be a defining moment, a vivid declaration of character. He wished he himself were capable of such a moment.

Donald MacRae said, “Somebody has to do it.”

Captain James said, “Not me—never. I won’t.”

Hugh MacRae swore.

Donald MacRae turned up his palms. “Be reasonable, Tom.”

Waddell stood beside them, beaming, then took one calculated step toward the crowd. “Waddell!” Solomon Fishblate shouted from the front of the crowd, and others took up the chant: “Waddell! Waddell! Waddell!” He stood at the top step and let them cheer. He waved. He bowed deeply from the waist, sweeping his plumed hat across his body in a graceful flourish.

Two of the Red Shirts grabbed him bodily and hauled him through the parting crowd, then hoisted him onto a horse. The stirrups were too long, but never mind that, he thought. He took the reins in one hand and, in a gesture he had not used in thirty-five years, lifted the other easily, naturally, palm open. He waited till the men had turned their attention from the armory steps to him. He sat above the crowd, feeding on their upturned faces, hand still raised. “We tried to reason with the niggers,” he said, “but they have defied us. Alex Manly is still at large, free to slander the good name of our women. I say this nonsense has gone on long enough!”

The men hurrahed.

“Today, we march on the nigger newspaper and seize Manly—are you with me?”

The din rattled the windows of the armory. With all eyes fastened on him, Waddell casually let his arm drop forward, as if he were tossing a baseball, and their cheers started his horse forward up Market Street.