“Stop it. I’m giving you a chance—take it.”

Without answering, Grant settled back into the seat and took the reins. He backed the mare and skillfully turned the buggy around. They headed back to town. Now that she knew the voices were out there, she heard the singing all the way back to the main road, long after it was too far away to hear. The eeriness of it thrilled her stomach—it was like riding among ghosts. She wept all the way home.

The Reverend J. Allen Kirk huddled under the Hilton Bridge in the railroad culvert. He heard the single horse and buggy clomp across the bridge—too slow to be vigilantes. He almost ventured a look, but at the last minute ducked back into the shadows. When the rain let up, he would follow the culvert farther out of town.

He ought to be braver, he knew. He wanted to stand at the head of his congregation in defiance of the white vigilantes. Once, he could have been a rock, a leader, a martyr—but then, in one sermon, Ivanhoe Grant had stolen his congregation away from him. Let Grant be their martyr.

The buggy was gone, and the rain came down harder than ever. A slow train rumbled past him. Through the windows in the lighted cars sat white men, their rifles poking up between the seats.

He prayed for courage. He bolted from under the shelter of the bridge and dodged from shadow to shadow along the deep culvert, running away.

By nightfall, companies of State Guards from the outlying towns of Clinton and Maxton and a detachment of Naval Reserves from Kinston arrived in town. The Kinston troops relieved the men of the Light Infantry at the jail. Half the Clinton men were assigned to patrol the perimeter of Brooklyn, and half were detailed to guard the hospital after a rumored attempt to finish off Bill Mayo. The Maxton men were billeted in reserve at the armory and in private homes nearby.

Colonel Walker Taylor now commanded some five hundred men in uniform. Mike Dowling still led eighty Red Shirts. Another fifty Rough Riders prowled the streets. Colonel Roger Moore could count on three hundred vigilantes, many of whom were now deputized. Police Chief Parmele fielded about half his force of twenty-five patrolmen, three sergeants, and a captain. The rest had fled the city under threat.

Hugh MacRae and J. Allan Taylor had their own shadow force of men who reported directly to the Secret Nine. These men were scattered among the other organizations. Somewhere, four Pinkerton operatives—two white and two black, each team unaware of the other—were still rattling around, along with Special Constable John Taylor, a Negro, who patrolled Brooklyn trying to keep people indoors.