The rain over Washington was relentless that night, hammering the copper roof of the White House like the roll of distant artillery.
Thunder cracked somewhere above the Potomac, and the city below, usually so loud with engines, horns, and the shuffle of crowds, was eerily muted.
A curfew had been declared two hours earlier. What few lights remained glowed behind barricades of sandbags and barbed wire.
Inside, the air smelled of wet paper and sweat.
The telephones never stopped ringing.
Messages poured in from governors, generals, and terrified mayors, each one reporting riots, looting, or defections.
Broadcast towers in several states had been seized by protesters.
National Guard armories were opening their gates to civilians.
In Philadelphia, a mob had burned down the federal courthouse.
In Texas, the governor had declared Washington "unlawful" and called a provisional assembly in Austin.
