There were other killings that day. On the one side, this, Leeman, a boy of eighteen and the youngest raider, Trying to flee from the death-trap of the engine-house And caught and killed on an islet in the Potomac. The body lay on a tiny shelf of rock For hours, a sack of clothes still stung by bullets.

On the other side⁠—Fontaine Beckham, mayor of the town, Went to look at Heyward’s body with Patrick Higgins. The slow tears crept to his eyes. He was getting old. He had thought a lot of Heyward. He had no gun But he had been mayor of the town for a dozen years, A peaceful, orderly place full of decent people, And now they were killing people, here in his town, He had to do something to stop it, somehow or other.