Their cheering interrupted him. He rocked back on his heels, and Sam could tell he was not savoring the cheers. He had lost control this morning, and he knew it. For a few minutes, Sam reflected, it had been like Cuba—the confusion of violence, the stomach-clenching fear, and afterward the guilt. It must not happen again. It might already be too late. Waddell, impatient, started talking again before the crowd had quieted.

“I assure you, whoever bags that black rascal shall not be prosecuted under law!”

This time, the cheering went on for some time, the Red Shirts chanting, “Kill Manly! Kill Manly!”

Waddell held up his hands for silence. “You called upon me to lead you. You have performed your duty. Now, go quietly about your business. Obey the law—unless we are forced to defend ourselves.”

Here, he paused for a predictable round of hurrahs. Waddell desperately wanted to keep his audience assembled within the sound of his voice, yet part of him feared what he had inspired them to do, what they still might do. This morning, the clamor of battle had revisited him, and he had loved it. The kerosene smoke still burned his nostrils. Following his lead, the mob had displayed a power like a natural force. A man could get drunk on that power—and he must keep his head. There was intricate work to be done yet.

At first, the crowd knotted together, talking excitedly about what they had just accomplished. Captain James held the infantry inside the building.

His mouth suddenly cotton-dry, Waddell turned on his heels and went inside to fetch a glass of water. Sam followed. The mob began to disperse, men in small bands heading for their jobs, their neighborhoods. A good many of them lived in Brooklyn among the Negro workmen.

Waddell stomped the length of the marble hall into the back kitchen and drank from a tin ladle he filled at the pump. He slurped the water carelessly, splashing his shirt and lapels. His collar was already slippery with perspiration, and he smelled of horse sweat. His thighs were sore from the ride, and his knees ached. He was breathing hard.

Sam stood behind him, hands clasped in front, saying nothing. When Waddell turned, he said, “Thirsty work, eh, Colonel?”

Colonel Waddell rehung the ladle and dabbed his lips with a dishtowel. “You don’t approve?”

“Didn’t figure you for a vigilante.”

Waddell heard the disappointment in his voice. He snapped the towel into the sink. “This is not what I had in mind. But men are men. You can lead them so far, but in the end they will do what they will do.”

“You’re resigned to it.” Sam felt lightheaded from adrenaline.

Waddell stepped close to him, and Sam saw the power building again in his eyes, the light being turned up brighter. “I’m resigned to nothing,” Waddell said. “Nothing is changed. Somebody got carried away. A building has been burned.”