night of April 17th, 1861, I was awakened out of a sound sleep about
11 o'clock by three men, who requested me to accompany them to
Jeffersonville, a small town on the St. Francis river, eight miles
distant. These men I had often met. One of them I regarded as a good
friend, and had some confidence in the other two. I asked for time
to dress and get ready, which they cheerfully granted. I carefully
loaded and capped my "Navies," and saddling my horse started with
them, like Paul, "not knowing what was to befall me there," but I
fear without much of the spirit of the good apostle, of whom I had
learned in the pious home of my childhood. I soon found these
"carnal weapons" essential safeguards in that place, though if I had
been an apostle I might not have needed them.

On the way to town my friend Buck Scruggs--he deserved a better
name--asked me to ride forward with him, and gave me this
information and advice. "You are now going to be tried by the
Phillips County Vigilance Committee on suspicion of being a Northern
man and an abolitionist. When you reach the grocery where they are
assembled, seat yourself on the counter in the back part of the
room, where if you have to defend yourself they cannot get behind
you. Make no studied defence, but calmly meet the charges at the
fitting time and in brief words. Keep cool, and use no language
which can be tortured into an offensive sense, and if possible I
will save you. If the worst comes, draw your pistols and be ready,
but don't shoot while ever there is hope, for you will of course be
killed the instant you kill any one else."

I listened very intently to this advice, given as coolly as if he
had been chatting about an every-day concern, and concluded that all
depended upon my coolness and steadiness of nerve when the final