several neighbors were gathered, under
arms. Our way led us by the ruined court-house, where for several
squares the ground was completely covered with torn records, books, and
other documents.

The night wore by in fitful sleep or anxious vigils. Near us all was
quiet; but the distant sky was in many places red with incendiary
fires. At dawn Mr. Kenyon, Gilbert, and others ventured out, and
returned with sad tidings brought by courier from Christiansted. At
the signal on Sunday night the negroes had swarmed there by thousands.
Next day, when the governor had just departed for our town, leaving
word to do nothing in his absence, they had attacked the fort as they
had ours. But its commander, of a sturdy temper, had opened fire,
killing and wounding many. This had only defended the town at the
expense of the country, into which thousands scattered to break,
pillage, and burn. Yet even so no whites had been killed except two or
three men who had opposed the blacks single-handed, although the whole
island, outside the two towns, was at the mercy of the insurgents.

However, there was better news. A Danish man-of-war was near by. A
schooner was gone to look her up, and another to ask aid in the island
of Porto Rico, only seventy miles away and heavily garrisoned with
Spaniards. Still it was deemed wise to accept for Fredericksted the
offer from the ships and send the women and children on board, so that
the military might be free to hold the uprising in check until a
stronger force could extinguish it.

"Tom," Mr. Kenyon said, "is to have a boat at the beach to take us off
to an American schooner. Pack no trunks. Gather your lightest
valuables in small bundles. Be quick; if a crowd gets there before you
you may be refused."

We hurried home over a carpet of archives and title-deeds, swallowed a
sort of breakfast, and began the hard task of choosing the little we
could take from the much we must leave, in a dear home that might soon
be in ashes.

On the schooner we found a kind welcome, amid a throng of friends and
strangers, and a chaos of boxes, bundles, and _trunks_. Children were
crying to go home, or viewing with babbling delight the wide roadstead
dotted with boats still bringing the fugitives to every anchored
vessel. Women were calling farewells and cautions to the men in the
returning boats, and meeting friends were telling in many tongues the
droll or sad distresses of the hour.

A friend, wi