One night, in the previous summer, I had followed the excited crowds to
Coliseum Hall to hear the Governor speak, and I had seen him rise like
some old Hebrew prophet, with his long white beard and patriarchal head
of hair, and denounce iniquity and political injustice and the
oppressions of the predatory rich. He appealed to the Bible in a calm
prediction that, if the reign of lawlessness did not cease, in time to
come "blood would flow in the land even unto the horses' bridles."
(And he earned for himself, thereby, the nickname of "Bloody Bridles"
Waite.)
Now it began to appear that his prediction was about to come true; for
he called out the militia, and the Board armed the police. My brother
was a militiaman, and I kept pace with him as his regiment marched from
the Armouries to attack the City Hall. There were riflemen on the
towers and in the windows of that building; and on the roofs of the
houses for blocks around were sharpshooters and armed gamblers and the
defiant agents of the powers who were behind the Police Board in their
fight. Gatling guns were rushed through the streets; cannon were
trained on the City Hall; the long lines of militia were drawn up
before the building; and amid the excited tumult of the mob and the
eleventh-hour conferences of the Committee of Public Safety, and the
hurry of mounted officers and the marching of troops, we all waited
with our hearts in our mouths for the report of the first shot.
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