“And what were we sent for?” said the captain, bristling up to me.  I evaded the question.

The search of the house was completed, and nothing found to condemn us.  They next proceeded to the garden, and knocked about every bush and vine, with no better success.  The captain called his men together, and, after a short consultation, the order to march was given.  As they passed out of the gate, the captain turned back, and pronounced a malediction on the house.  He said it ought to be burned to the ground, and each of its inmates receive thirty-nine lashes.  We came out of this affair very fortunately; not losing any thing except some wearing apparel.

Towards evening the turbulence increased.  The soldiers, stimulated by drink, committed still greater cruelties.  Shrieks and shouts continually rent the air.  Not daring to go to the door, I peeped under the window curtain.  I saw a mob dragging along a number of colored people, each white man, with his musket upraised, threatening instant death if they did not stop their shrieks.  Among the prisoners was a respectable old colored minister.  They had found a few parcels of shot in his house, which his wife had for years used to balance her scales.  For this they were going to shoot him on Court House Green.  What a spectacle was that for a civilized country!  A rabble, staggering under intoxication, assuming to be the administrators of justice!

The better class of the community exerted their influence to save the innocent, persecuted people; and in several instances they succeeded, by keeping them shut up in jail till the excitement abated.  At last the white citizens found that their own property was not safe from the lawless rabble they had summoned to protect them.  They rallied the drunken swarm, drove them back into the country, and set a guard over the town.

The next day, the town patrols were commissioned to search colored people that lived out of the city; and the most shocking outrages were committed with perfect impunity.  Every day for a fortnight, if I looked out, I saw horsemen with some poor panting negro tied to their saddles, and compelled by the lash to keep up with their speed, till they arrived at the jail yard.  Those who had been whipped too unmercifully to walk were washed with brine, tossed into a cart, and carried to jail.  One black man, who had not fortitude to endure scourging, promised to give information about the conspiracy.  But it turned out that he knew nothing at all.  He had not even heard the name of Nat Turner.  The poor fellow had, however, made up a story, which augmented his own sufferings and those of the colored people.