citizens, General Hall and Colonel Duryea made another attempt to address
the crowd, and begged them to cease these attacks. "Fire and be d--ned!"
shouted a burly fellow. "Fire, if you dare--take the life of a freeborn
American for a bloody British actor! D--n it, you dassent fire!" and he
boldly bared his breast to the levelled muskets. "Fire, will you?" yelled
another, as he hurled a paving-stone at General Sandford, wounding his
sword arm. "Hit 'em again!" shouted a third, who saw the well-directed
aim. Still averse to shedding blood, General Hall told the soldiers to
elevate their pieces over the heads of the people, and fire at the blank
wall of Mr. Langton's house opposite, hoping thus to frighten the mob. But
this only awakened derision, and the leaders shouted, "Come on, boys! they
have blank cartridges and leather flints!" In the meantime, the police,
who had mingled with the mob, and were making arrests, began to force
their way out, in order to escape the fire that now seemed inevitable. The
troops moved across the street, and faced toward the Bowery, obeying the
word of command promptly, and marching with great steadiness, although the
pelting they received was murderous. To retreat would be pusillanimous, to
stand there and be pelted to death worse still; and General Hall finally
gave the order to fire point blank, but to aim low, so that men would be
wounded, rather than killed. The command fell clear and distinct, "Fire!"

A single musket shot on the extreme left was the only response. They were
too near--their muzzles almost touching the hearts of the men, and it
seemed terribly murderous to fire. "Fire!" shouted General Sandford.

Three more musket-shots, only, followed. "Fire!" Duryea then cried out, in
ringing tones. A swift volley ran along the line, shedding a momentary
glare on the wild faces of the mob, the streets, and adjoining houses, and
then came the report. This time the dead in their midst told the rioters
that it was child's play no longer, and they fell back. But getting a new