The Wellington riot began at three o'clock in the afternoon of a day as fair as was ever selected for a deed of darkness. The sky was clear, except for a few light clouds that floated, white and feathery, high in air, like distant islands in a sapphire¹ sea. A salt-laden breeze from the ocean a few miles away lent a crisp sparkle to the air.  
At three o'clock sharp the streets were filled, as if by magic, with armed white men. The negroes, going about, had noted², with uneasy curiosity, that the stores and places of business, many of which closed at noon, were unduly³ late in opening for the afternoon, though no one suspected the reason for the delay; but at three o'clock every passing colored man was ordered, by the first white man he met, to throw up his hands. If he complied, he was searched, more or less roughly, for firearms, and then warned to get off the street. When he met another group of white men the scene was repeated. The man thus summarily held up seldom encountered more than two groups before disappearing across lots to his own home or some convenient hiding-place. If he resisted any demand of those who halted him—But the records of the day are historical; they may be found in the newspapers of the following date, but they are more firmly engraved⁴ upon the hearts and memories of the people of Wellington. For many months there were negro families in the town whose children screamed with fear and ran to their mothers for protection at the mere⁵ sight of a white man.
 
Dr. Miller⁶ had received a call, about one o'clock, to attend a case at the house of a well-to-do colored farmer, who lived some three or four miles from the town, upon the very road, by the way, along which Miller had driven so furiously a few weeks before, in the few hours that intervened before Sandy Campbell would probably have been burned at the stake. The drive to his patient's home, the necessary inquiries⁷, the filling of the prescription⁸ from his own medicine-case, which he carried along with him, the little friendly conversation about the weather and the crops, and, the farmer being an intelligent and thinking man, the inevitable¹⁰ subject of the future of their race,—these, added to the return journey, occupied at least two hours of Miller's time.
 
As he neared the town on his way back, he saw ahead of him half a dozen men and women approaching, with fear written in their faces, in every degree from apprehension¹¹ to terror. Women were weeping and children crying, and all were going as fast as seemingly lay in their power, looking behind now and then as if pursued by some deadly enemy. At sight of Miller's buggy they made a dash for cover, disappearing, like a covey of frightened partridges, in the underbrush along the road.
 
Miller pulled up his horse and looked after them in startled wonder.
 
"What on earth can be the matter?" he muttered, struck with a vague feeling of alarm. A psychologist, seeking to trace the effects of slavery upon the human mind, might find in the South many a curious illustration of this curse, abiding¹² long after the actual physical bondage¹³ had terminated. In the olden time the white South labored¹⁴ under the constant fear of negro insurrections. Knowing that they themselves, if in the negroes' place, would have risen in the effort to throw off the yoke¹⁵, all their reiterated¹⁶ theories of negro subordination and inferiority could not remove that lurking¹⁷ fear, founded upon the obscure consciousness that the slaves ought to have risen. Conscience, it has been said, makes cowards of us all. There was never, on the continent of America, a successful slave revolt, nor one which lasted more than a few hours, or resulted in the loss of more than a few white lives; yet never was the planter quite free from the fear that there might be one.
 
On the other hand, the slave had before his eyes always the fear of the master. There were good men, according to their lights,—according to their training and environment,—among the Southern slaveholders, who treated their slaves kindly¹⁸, as slaves, from principle, because they recognized the claims of humanity, even under the dark skin of a human chattel¹⁹. There was many a one who protected or pampered²⁰ his negroes, as the case might be, just as a man fondles his dog,—because they were his; they were a part of his estate, an integral part of the entity²¹ of property and person which made up the aristocrat²²; but with all this kindness, there was always present, in the consciousness of the lowest slave, the knowledge that he was in his master's power, and that he could make no effectual protest against the abuse of that authority. There was also the knowledge, among those who could think at all, that the best of masters was himself a slave to a system, which hampered²³ his movements but scarcely less than those of his bondmen.
 
When, therefore, Miller saw these men and women scampering²⁴ into the bushes, he divined, with this slumbering²⁵ race consciousness which years of culture had not obliterated²⁶, that there was some race trouble on foot. His intuition did not long remain unsupported. A black head was cautiously protruded²⁷ from the shrubbery, and a black voice—if such a description be allowable—addressed him:—
 
"Is dat you, Doctuh Miller?"
 
"Yes. Who are you, and what's the trouble?"
 
"What's de trouble, suh? Why, all hell's broke loose in town yonduh. De w'ite folks is riz 'gins' de niggers, an' say dey're gwine ter kill eve'y nigger dey kin⁹ lay han's on."
 
Miller's heart leaped to his throat, as he thought of his wife and child. This story was preposterous²⁸; it could not be true, and yet there must be something in it. He tried to question his informant, but the man was so overcome with excitement and fear that Miller saw clearly that he must go farther for information. He had read in the Morning Chronicle, a few days before, the obnoxious²⁹ editorial quoted from the Afro-American Banner, and had noted the comment upon it by the white editor. He had felt, as at the time of its first publication, that the editorial was ill-advised. It could do no good, and was calculated to arouse the animosity of those whose friendship, whose tolerance³⁰, at least, was necessary and almost indispensable to the colored people. They were living, at the best, in a sort of armed neutrality with the whites; such a publication, however serviceable elsewhere, could have no other effect in Wellington than to endanger this truce³¹ and defeat the hope of a possible future friendship. The right of free speech entitled Barber to publish it; a larger measure of common-sense would have made him withhold³² it. Whether it was the republication of this article that had stirred up anew the sleeping dogs of race prejudice and whetted³³ their thirst for blood, he could not yet tell; but at any rate, there was mischief³⁴ on foot.
 
"Fer God's sake, doctuh, don' go no closeter ter dat town," pleaded his informant, "er you'll be killt sho'. Come on wid us, suh, an' tek keer er yo'se'f. We're gwine ter hide in de swamps till dis thing is over!"
 
"God, man!" exclaimed Miller, urging his horse forward, "my wife and child are in the town!"
 
Fortunately, he reflected, there were no patients confined in the hospital,—if there should be anything in this preposterous story. To one unfamiliar³⁵ with Southern life, it might have seemed impossible that these good Christian³⁶ people, who thronged³⁷ the churches on Sunday, and wept over the sufferings of the lowly Nazarene, and sent missionaries³⁸ to the heathen, could be hungering and thirsting for the blood of their fellow men; but Miller cherished no such delusion³⁹. He knew the history of his country; he had the threatened lynching of Sandy Campbell vividly⁴⁰ in mind; and he was fully⁴¹ p............