“Now, wait a minute, John,” Gouvenier said. “This boy got us out of there.”

Taylor said, “He stood by while they trussed you up like hogs.” He tapped his field glasses.

“What are you going to do?” Peamon asked. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He hoped to God they weren’t going to turn the Gatling gun on his people. Get away, he thought—get far away and don’t look back. “You can’t just—”

“As we’re under martial law,” J. Allan Taylor said, “this colored boy will face a firing squad.”

“What for?” Peamon was incredulous. He lived by the law—due process, presumption of innocence, a jury of peers. These were the forces of law.

“Inciting insurrection.”

“Now, hold on,” MacRae said. This was getting way out of hand. The boy had just done them a big favor. They had what they wanted—no sense pushing their luck. It was one thing to fire on a mob of laborers, another to lynch a prominent citizen—even a Negro. And a politician at that. There would be questions, interference from federal judges, grand juries. Besides, the boy had always cooperated. You wanted to give some incentive. “Nobody’s declared martial law, John, not yet. You can’t just shoot the boy.”

“What, then?”

MacRae had a plan, a list, for later. He and J. Allan Taylor had worked it out weeks ago. Might as well start now. “Put him on a train,” MacRae reminded him. “Banish him.”

Peamon started to protest.

MacRae clapped him on the back. “Don’t thank me, boy—you did us a good turn. Least I can do is see you safely out of here.”

A detail of four infantrymen with fixed bayonets escorted Carter Peamon to the Atlantic Coastline depot on Red Cross Street. It was a rough escort—twice when Peamon tried to convince the men to reconsider, they clubbed him with rifle butts. When they arrived, his right eye was swollen shut, and he had lost a tooth.

The depot, like all the freight and passenger depots in the area, was patrolled by vigilantes. They had orders to let any Negro leave who could afford the fare, but they were also on the lookout for Alex Manly. There was no regular passenger train scheduled within the hour, so they flagged a Columbia & Augusta switcher engine that was heading across the river to Lake Waccamaw to pick up a string of boxcars. One of the soldiers cut Peamon’s bindings with a bayonet, and he climbed up beside the engineer and fireman.

At Eagle Island, just across the river, the engine was shunted to a siding to let a freight pass. Peamon saw his chance. He was a man of property, with a family and interests, and he didn’t intend to be hustled out of town like a bad character. He would not forfeit all he had worked for. He hopped down out of the cab onto the gravel roadbed and straightened his coat. He brushed his sleeves and hitched his trousers.