“What’s that in your hand, missy?” one of them asked.

She held up her rock of virtue in her fist and threatened him.

“Strip off that dress and search this little gal,” the squad leader said.

Two men grabbed her arms, and the leader began to unbutton her dress.

Without thinking, Sam stepped into the middle of things. “Don’t touch her,” he said with authority. “She hasn’t done anything.”

“Just who the hell are you?” the squad leader asked.

Fighting down panic, Sam said, “She’s on an errand for my cousin, Hugh MacRae.”

“Mr. MacRae? Well, that’s different. Boys, let her pass.”

Saffron shrugged them off and stalked away without looking back. The fire bells were still ringing, joined now by church bells. The squad of infantry began to move on.

At last, Sam made it home. He climbed onto his porch and doubled over, his hands on his knees, to keep from being sick.

At Front and Princess streets, David King was stopped by a vigilante patrol—Dowling and a band of Red Shirts. They had been refreshing themselves at Jurgen Haar’s and were now headed back to Brooklyn. David was all mixed up. When the shooting had started at Walker’s Grocery, he had lit out. He had to get to his mother, who was at Colonel Waddell’s house. He would be safe there—she had told him so. But he had come too far.

“Hold up there, boy,” Dowling said, shoving the muzzle of a Winchester in his face.

“Got to get to my mam,” he said.

“And where would she be?”

“Don’t know, perzactly. Fifth Street, at the big house.”

“You’re off your road, boy,” Dowling said. “What’s that thing on your neck?” David King rubbed his bloody bandage.

One of the Red Shirts said, “Ain’t you the boy was at Manly’s place?”

“Not me, cap’n,” he said, backing away.

“Sure, it’s the same boy,” another said. “I seen him there. Rabbited out the back.”

“You going to rabbit on us, boy?” Dowling asked.

David King was befuddled. What did these men want from him? All day long, he had run from one bad place to another. It was time to run again.

He pumped his legs and got three steps before they shot him down.

“Come on, boys,” Dowling said. “Open season on blackbirds. I know where there’s a whole flock.”

Before the day was out, Dowling would boast that he had bagged thirty.

Chapter Eighteen

Look around—do you see any monuments to Alex Manly? Is there a Carter Peamon Library on your pretty campus?

Saffron King James, 1964

C H A P T E R   E I G H T E E N

Thursday, November 10

THE KILLING WENT ON all afternoon.