XXIII
Into the Lion’s Jaws
The party under Josh’s leadership moved off down the road. Miller, while entirely convinced that he had acted wisely in declining to accompany them, was yet conscious of a distinct feeling of shame and envy that he, too, did not feel impelled to throw away his life in a hopeless struggle.
Watson left the buggy and disappeared by a path at the roadside. Miller drove rapidly forward. After entering the town, he passed several small parties of white men, but escaped scrutiny by sitting well back in his buggy, the presumption being that a well-dressed man with a good horse and buggy was white. Torn with anxiety, he reached home at about four o’clock. Driving the horse into the yard, he sprang down from the buggy and hastened to the house, which he found locked, front and rear.
A repeated rapping brought no response. At length he broke a window, and entered the house like a thief.
“Janet, Janet!” he called in alarm, “where are you? It is only I—Will!”
There was no reply. He ran from room to room, only to find them all empty. Again he called his wife’s name, and was about rushing from the house, when a muffled voice came faintly to his ear—
“Is dat you, Doctuh Miller?”
“Yes. Who are you, and where are my wife and child?”
He was looking around in perplexity, when the door of a low closet under the kitchen sink was opened from within, and a woolly head was cautiously protruded.
“Are you sho’ dat’s you, doctuh?”
“Yes, Sally; where are”—
“An’ not some w’ite man come ter bu’n down de house an’ kill all de niggers?”
“No, Sally, it’s me all right. Where is my wife? Where is my child?”
“Dey went over ter see Mis’ Butler ’long ’bout two o’clock, befo’ dis fuss broke out, suh. Oh, Lawdy, Lawdy, suh! Is all de cullud folks be’n killt ’cep’n’ me an’ you, suh? Fer de Lawd’s sake, suh, you won’ let ’em kill me, will you, suh? I’ll wuk fer you fer nuthin’, suh, all my bawn days, ef you’ll save my life, suh!”
“Calm yourself, Sally. You’ll be safe enough if you stay right here, I’ve no doubt. They’ll not harm women—of that I’m sure enough, although I haven’t yet got the bearings of this deplorable affair. Stay here and look after the house. I must find my wife and child!”
The distance across the city to the home of the Mrs. Butler whom his wife had gone to visit was exactly one mile. Though Miller had a good horse in front of him, he was two hours in reaching his destination. Never will the picture of that ride fade from his memory. In his dreams he repeats it night after night, and sees the sights that wounded his eyes, and feels the thoughts—the haunting spirits of the thoughts—that tore his heart as he rode through hell to find those whom he was seeking. For a short distance he saw nothing, and made rapid progress. As he turned the first corner, his horse shied at the dead body of a negro, lying huddled up in the collapse which marks sudden death. What Miller shuddered at was not so much the thought of death, to the sight of which his profession had accustomed him, as the suggestion of what it signified. He had taken with allowance the wild statement of the fleeing fugitives. Watson, too, had been greatly excited, and Josh Green’s group were desperate men, as much liable to be misled by their courage as the others by their fears; but here was proof that murder had been done—and his wife and children were in the town. Distant shouts, and the sound of firearms, increased his alarm. He struck his horse with the whip, and dashed on toward the heart of the city, which he must traverse in order to reach Janet and the child.
At the next corner lay the body of another man, with the red blood oozing from a ghastly wound in the forehead. The negroes seemed to have been killed, as the band plays in circus parades, at the street intersections, where the example would be most effective. Miller, with a wild leap of the heart, had barely passed this gruesome spectacle, when a sharp voice commanded him to halt, and emphasized the order by covering him with a revolver. Forgetting the prudence he had preached to others, he had raised his whip to strike the horse, when several hands seized the bridle.
“Come down, you damn fool,” growled an authoritative voice. “Don’t you see we’re in earnest? Do you want to get killed?”
“Why should I come down?” asked Miller. “Because we’ve ordered you to come down! This is the white people’s day, and when they order, a nigger must obey. We’re going to search you for weapons.”
“Search away. You’ll find nothing but a case of surgeon’s tools, which I’m more than likely to need before this day is over, from all indications.”
“No matter; we’ll make sure of it! That’s what we’re here for. Come down, if you don’t want to be pulled down!”
Miller stepped down from his buggy. His interlocutor, who made no effort at disguise, was a clerk in a dry-goods store where Miller bought most of his family and hospital supplies. He made no sign of recognition, however, and Miller claimed no acquaintance. This man, who had for several years emptied Miller’s pockets in the course of more or less legitimate trade, now went through them, aided by another man, more rapidly than ever before, the searchers convincing themselves that Miller carried no deadly weapon upon his person. Meanwhile, a third ransacked the buggy with like result. Miller recognized several others of the party, who made not the slightest attempt at disguise, though no names were called by anyone.
“Where are you going?” demanded the leader.
“I am looking for my wife and child,” replied Miller.
“Well, run along, and keep them out of the streets when you find
