A Lynching

     Finally, the mob appeared to be gone. I cautiously emerged from the alley, listening and looking about for signs of violent laggards. Through the haze of smoke and dust left in the wake of the destruction, I could see the body of the stevedore propped against a tree, a charred rope about his neck. The sight was horrid, but I knew that I had to go and speak a prayer for this brave man who had given his life in defense of mine. As I drew near his form, I found myself gasping for breath. 

What I saw was the form of a man, but beaten and burned almost beyond recognition. His clothing was also charred, with what was left mostly ripped away; his right arm was hanging on by the sinews. 

What had once been his face had been pounded into a bloody, dirt-caked, burnt mass. An eyeball dangled from the left socket, and his ears had been torn off. Other parts of his body, which his trousers once covered, were unspeakably mangled. I closed my eyes and said a prayer to our Almighty God. The stevedore’s soul was surely ascended—the body was but a temporary receptacle. 

     I comforted myself with these thoughts as I moved away, even as my anxieties increased. Would I find more bloodshed before I found refuge? 

[TO BE CONTINUED.]