The sheriff gloats over it in language which ought not be
allowed to disappear:
"It was the best piece of work I ever witnessed. The police
went to the depot, not armed with the regulation 'billy,'
but carrying stout hickory clubs about two and one-half feet
long.
Their idea was that a mahogany or lignum vitae billy was too costly a
weapon to be broken over a Negro's head. The police were on board the
train before it stopped even, and the way they went for the Negroes
was inspiring. The police tolerated no impudence, much less rowdyism,
from the Negroes, and if a darky even looked mad, it was enough for
some policeman to bend his club double over his head. In fact after
the police finished with them they were the meekest, mildest, most
polite set of colored men I ever saw." This language is respectfully
dedicated to the memory of the proud city of Nashville, and presents
to the readers the portrait of her police.
Despite this vile treatment, the colored soldier went on to his home,
ready again to respond to his country's call, and to rally to the
defence of his country's flag, and, incidentally, to the preservation
of the lives and homes of the misguided, heartless beings who can
delight in his sufferings. The hickory club belongs to one sort of
warrior; the rifle to quite another.
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