Jerry’s cries were drowned in a roar of rage and a volley of shots from the mob.  Carteret, who had turned away with Ellis, did not even hear his servant’s voice.  Jerry’s poor flag of truce, his explanations, his reliance upon his white friends, all failed him in the moment of supreme need.  In that hour, as in any hour when the depths of race hatred are stirred, a negro was no more than a brute beast, set upon by other brute beasts whose only instinct was to kill and destroy.

“Let us leave this inferno, Ellis,” said Carteret, sick with anger and disgust.  He had just become aware that a negro was being killed, though he did not know whom.  “We can do nothing.  The negroes have themselves to blame,—­they tempted us beyond endurance.  I counseled firmness, and firm measures were taken, and our purpose was accomplished.  I am not responsible for these subsequent horrors,—­I wash my hands of them.  Let us go!”

The flames gained headway and gradually enveloped the burning building, until it became evident to those within as well as those without that the position of the defenders was no longer tenable.  Would they die in the flames, or would they be driven out?  The uncertainty soon came to an end.

The besieged had been willing to fight, so long as there seemed a hope of successfully defending themselves and their property; for their purpose was purely one of defense.  When they saw the case was hopeless, inspired by Josh Green’s reckless courage, they were still willing to sell their lives dearly.  One or two of them had already been killed, and as many more disabled.  The fate of Jerry Letlow had struck terror to the hearts of several others, who could scarcely hide their fear.  After the building had been fired, Josh’s exhortations were no longer able to keep them in the hospital.  They preferred to fight and be killed in the open, rather than to be smothered like rats in a hole.

“Boys!” exclaimed Josh,—­“men!—­fer nobody but men would do w’at you have done,—­the day has gone ‘g’inst us.  We kin see ou’ finish; but fer my part, I ain’ gwine ter leave dis worl’ widout takin’ a w’ite man ‘long wid me, an’ I sees my man right out yonder waitin’,—­I be’n waitin’ fer him twenty years, but he won’ have ter wait fer me mo’ ’n ‘bout twenty seconds.  Eve’y one er you pick yo’ man!  We’ll open de do’, an’ we’ll give some w’ite men a chance ter be sorry dey ever started dis fuss!”

The door was thrown open suddenly, and through it rushed a dozen or more black figures, armed with knives, pistols, or clubbed muskets.  Taken by sudden surprise, the white people stood motionless for a moment, but the approaching negroes had scarcely covered half the distance to which the heat of the flames had driven back the mob, before they were greeted with a volley that laid them all low but two.  One of these, dazed by the fate of his companions, turned instinctively to flee, but had scarcely faced around before he fell, pierced in the back by a dozen bullets.