PART XVIII. THE BULGINE AT BAY.
When the riot in the street was at its highest,
a small body of the rioters separated from the
scene, and plunged into Dog Alley, which, so
near the scene of uproar, was all quiet and
dark.
“Let's git Bob Blazes and go at 'em again!”
cried the foremost of these rioters, and, ten in
number, they hastened to the groggery and
poured into its door.
“Come on, you dam Killers!”—a voice saluted
them — “Come on, you dam tief!”—
and they beheld the Bulgine, half naked,
standing in one corner, the knife in his hand
and his foot upon the dead body of Cromwell.
Furious with liquor and riot, the comrades
of Cromwell (known to them as Bob Blazes)
recoiled in horror at the sight.
Cromwell's face was upturned, the eyes glaring
and the lips distorted.
The Killers raised a shout, rushed forward,
but the negro was ready for them. Bracing
himself in the corner, his foot planted on the
breast of the dead man, he answered their
shout as they came on, and described a terrible
circle before his breast with the blade of
his bloody knife.
“Git some powder and lead!” — cried one
of the band —“I'd like to wing him as he
stands there: go, Bill, and be quick about it—”
But another of the band made a suggestion
in a whisper, which was received with great
satisfaction. This suggestion made, the Killers
retired in a body, leaving the negro alone with
the dead man. A portion of their number attained
the rear of the groggery, and effectually
closed and fastened the back door, while the
others nailed and secured the door and window
which opened on Dog Alley.
In a few moments the groggery was in
flames.
How it was done it is not necessary to relate;
but as the flames burst upon the darkness
of the alley, the conflict in the neighboring
street came like a wave of fists and clubs, and
faces stamped with frenzy, to the very door of
the burning hovel. Chased like dogs before
the hounds into the alley, a number of negroes
beheld themselves between the clubs and pistols
of the Killers and the fury of the flames.
The combat was renewed; negroes and whites
were fighting in the narrow court, and the
flames, mounting to the roof, began to communicate
with the adjoining hovels — yes, with
the flames which ascended from the house
which stood in the next street.
At this period a sound was heard which
chilled a thousand hearts with involuntary
terror.
That sound resounded from the midst of the
flames. It was like the howl of a wild beast at
bay.
“There's a man in that house!” roared a
number of voices in chorus.
“Let him burn!” answered one of the Killers,
as his face, streaked with dirt and blood,
was reddened by the flames.
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The sound was heard again, and as a thousand
eyes were uplifted, there appeared on the
roof of the groggery a huge dark form, environed
by flames, and bearing the form of a
woman in his arms. She was insensible, perchance
dead — her dress fluttered in a puff of
air as he held her aloft in his brawny arms —
and his black face, reddened by the flames, was
seen beneath the form which he held on high.
Seen for a moment only, for a cloud of smoke
rolled over him, and he disappeared.
Then a cry rose from the crowd — negroes
and whites, firemen and Killers — spectators at
distant windows — that you would not have
forgotten in a life-time.
The cloud of smoke had rolled away, and —
There, on the very edge of the roof, stood
the negro, his half-naked frame raised to its full
height, as he raised the body of the girl above
his head, straining his arms as though he was
about to dash himself and his burden upon the
heads of the multitude
“Save the gal!”
“Bring a ladder!”
“Go into the next house and get on the
roof — you may help her thar!”
“Go it, Killers!”
“Down with the niggers!”
Cries like these were heard amid the tumult
of the crowd, and then a black cloud swept
the negro and his burden suddenly from the
sight. The next instant a rumor spread among
the Killers — originated we cannot tell how —
that Elijah Watson was shut up in the burning
house. Neither can we tell why the fact had
not been thought of before; possibly the rioters
had been so much engaged in their arduous
duties that they had not time to think of him.
“Save Lije!” cried one of the band, “we
can get on to the roof of the next house, and
catch hold of him somehow. Boys! Hurray
for Lije!”
The roof of the adjoining house — we mean
the one on the left, as yet untouched by flames—
was some feet higher than the roof of the
groggery.
Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1850], The killers: a narrative of real life in Philadelphia (Hankinson and Bartholomew, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf257].
