Hiding Out

     The police protecting the Twentieth had greatly dwindled in number, as many had been sent to respond to reports of looting and arson. The report of the mob's nearness apparently was a rumor, as it remained quiet. As darkness arrived, more Negroes, some beaten and bloody, made their way to the station, which was the only refuge from the mob. With so many of us seeking sanctuary and safety, the station became extraordinarily crowded; conditions were such that we had insufficient room to move about. 

     The littlest orphans continued to whimper, and the infants began to cry ceaselessly for want of milk or other nourishment. Our guardians, however, were somehow able to appropriate meager rations for us, for which we were grateful. Although we were young, it seems to my memory that we discerned the great danger we were in; however, we comported ourselves in such a way as to not increase the distress among the littler children. 

     On Tuesday afternoon, awaking from a fitful nap in the tiny space I had found under a desk near the telegraph machine, which had been clicking furiously throughout the day, I peered out. The police were speaking in low, yet harsh, tones.

     “They’re hanging them from trees and lampposts, sir,” the young policeman whispered, reading from the telegraph machine.

     “My God,” the sergeant replied, distress choking his words. “It seems that they want to just wipe the blacks from the face of the earth! Well, that will end, as the military is now coming to assist.” Just then, another message came in. After reading it, the young policeman looked at his sergeant. His face was ashen.

     “The mob has defeated the military over on Forty-Fourth Street, sir,” he said, “and it is heading this way.” The sergeant stood. His formerly grave face now had on it a look of stern resolution.

     “Send the following,” he ordered. The young policeman began tapping a new message into the telegraph machine:

     “WE-EXPECT-TO-BE-ATTACKED-SHALL-WE-FIGHT-TO-THE-BITTER-END?” 

     The two stood in solemn silence. A moment later, the machine tapped out a brief response. The young policeman leaned over and read it, then turned to his superior.

     “FIGHT.”

[TO BE CONTINUED.]