The flames were leaping out of the roof now, and the northerly breeze threatened to spread the fire to the church next door. That would never do—you could not burn down a church and expect the world to bless your cause. Hundreds of rifles were firing now. Men and boys were cheering. Horses reared and plunged, neighing in fear. To Waddell, the clamor had an old, familiar taste.

Sam Jenks, who had finally worked his way to Waddell’s side, said, “I thought there wasn’t supposed to be any violence.” He hadn’t been this scared since Cuba.

Waddell bent from his horse. “Welcome to the chaos of battle, son.”

“Manly doesn’t even seem to be here.”

“It’s gone beyond that now. Men are going to die today.”

A block north, at the intersection of Ann Street, a horde of Red Shirts surrounded the horse-drawn fire engine of Phoenix Hose Reel Company No. 1 as it turned onto Seventh. The Negro crew clutched the brass handrails, as if they could not be harmed unless they let go. A dozen men grabbed the horses and held them. The others trained their rifles on the firemen and shouted obscenities. The firemen didn’t reply—they hugged their machine.

Free Love Hall blazed so hot that the crowd fell back. The cool air rushed past their ears toward the suction of the fire, and the heat gusted back into their faces. Flames shot fifty feet above the roof. The pine clapboards, saturated with natural resin, burned blue and orange. Boards crackled and spit. Rafters buckled with claps like pistol shots. The flames sucked at the cool air with a sound like heavy surf. The shake roof erupted in half a dozen places, the shingles fluttering onto the heads of the mob. Some of the clapboards literally exploded, rocketing embers into the crowd. The embers arced out from the building and bloomed like fireworks. The crowd cheered each one and danced out of the way.

The fire spit out flaming splinters. Little white boys scrapped over them, ran in gleeful circles trailing plumes of smoke.

All at once, a great tearing sound split the air—the joists were buckling. Waddell’s horse heard it and reared, almost tossing him off. He got the horse under control and listened: the upstairs floor was giving way.

A thousand men and boys stopped their spree. Then they heard a great boom as the Jonah Hoe press crashed through.

At the intersection of Seventh and Ann, the Red Shirts backed away from the fire brigade and let them through unmolested. For two hours, they fought the blaze, but they didn’t have a chance—Free Love Hall was already a ruin by the time they arrived. They worked under the guns of the mob, concentrating on their apparatus.

Hugh MacRae watched the firemen work. “Such discipline,” he observed.

One of the Red Shirts said, “You dress those monkeys up, they are crackerjack.”