The mob came together at once, the American mob, They mightn’t be able to take Brown’s last little fort But there were two prisoners penned in the Wager House. One was hurt already, Stevens, no fun killing him. But the other was William Thompson, whole and unwounded, Caught when Brown tried to send his first flag of truce.

They stormed the hotel and dragged him out to the bridge, Where two men shot him, unarmed, then threw the body Over the trestle. It splashed in the shallow water, But the slayers kept on firing at the dead face. The carcass was there for days, a riven target, Barbarously misused. Meanwhile the armory yard Was taken by a new band of Beckham’s avengers, The most of Brown’s prisoners freed and his last escape cut off.