He had not been willing to throw his life away
hopelessly, but he would cheerfully have sacrificed it for those whom he
loved.
He had gone but a short distance, and had not yet reached the centre of
mob activity, when he intercepted a band of negro laborers from the
cotton compress, with big Josh Green at their head.
"Hello, doctuh!" cried Josh, "does you wan' ter jine us?"
"I'm looking for my wife and child, Josh. They're somewhere in this
den of murderers. Have any of you seen them?"
No one had seen them.
"You men are running a great risk," said Miller. "You are rushing on to
certain death."
"Well, suh, maybe we is; but we're gwine ter die fightin'. Dey say de
w'ite folks is gwine ter bu'n all de cullud schools an' chu'ches, an'
kill all de niggers dey kin ketch. Dey're gwine ter bu'n yo' new
hospittle, ef somebody don' stop 'em."
"Josh--men--you are throwing your lives away. It is a fever; it will
wear off to-morrow, or to-night. They'll not burn the schoolhouses, nor
the hospital--they are not such fools, for they benefit the community;
and they'll only kill the colored people who resist them. Every one of
you with a gun or a pistol carries his death warrant in his own hand.
I'd rather see the hospital burn than have one of you lose his life.
Resistance only makes the matter worse,--the odds against you are too
long."
"Things can't be any wuss, doctuh," replied one of the crowd sturdily.
"A gun is mo' dange'ous ter de man in front of it dan ter de man behin'
it.
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