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.

While Peamon was adjusting his tie, a vigilante down the track raised a deer rifle and shot him square between the shoulder blades. Then he ducked inside the crew shack and rang up Roger Moore’s post. He shouted into the mouthpiece, Tell the Colonel—I just shot Alex Manly!”

The Board of Aldermen assembled at the home of building contractor Charles D. Morrill, who was ill with pneumonia and could not make the short trip to city hall. They sat around the dining room table, hands clasped on the white linen tablecloth. It had the flavor of a religious service. Whenever they heard hoof-beats on the street outside, or the sound of men’s voices, they glanced nervously over their shoulders at the unguarded windows.

Mayor Silas Wright, as usual wearing white gloves, called the meeting to order in a quiet voice. “You-all are aware of what is happening in our city,” Wright began, speaking slowly and precisely, as if delivering an unpleasant diagnosis. As he spoke, his hands fluttered gracefully. It was impossible not to watch his hands. “We must take steps to restore order.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Benjamin Keith said. He stood and circled the table, punching one hand softly into the palm of the other. This was about utilities, he figured: private water, private electric, private gas, even a private ferry. And railroad rates, municipal bonds, dollars and cents. Monopolies, and how to keep them. This white versus black business was just a screen—heartfelt, but still just a screen. The real issue was business. “The greedy sons of bitches finally—”