Throwing down the ill-omened journal, I could not forbear a muttered
quotation: "The day looks dark for England." Nevertheless, I drove on
straight from Frederick, determined to prove what the morrow would bring
forth. It was late when we reached the small roadside hotel, on the
ridge of the South Mountain, where I had arranged to halt for the night;
but, late as it was, I had time to hear fresh evil tidings before I
slept.
The Shepherdstown ferry was in working order at noon on the Monday. The
same evening, soon after dusk, four mounted men, with two led horses,
rode down, requiring to be set across instantly. The ferryman objected,
stating that his orders were imperative against putting any one over,
after sundown, without a special pass. The men insisted, stating that
they bore dispatches from Kelly to Milroy, and enforced their demands
with threats. The unhappy ferryman was totally unarmed, and only wished
to escape. They shot him to death without further parley, under the eyes
of his mother and sister, who saw all from their windows. Then they
ferried themselves and their horses across, and left the boat on the
Virginia, bank, after knocking out two or three of her planks. Naturally
there was a great revulsion of popular feeling in the country, and there
had been a real _emeute_ round the murdered man's grave.
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