midnight
John Vaughan had secured a loose horse on emerging from his friendly swamp . The shadows of night had given him the chance to escape . His horse was fresh , the rain had begun to fall , the heat had abated and he made good time . He reached the office before midnight , took his seat at his desk , pale and determined to tell the truth . He wrote an account of the battle and the panic in which it had ended so vivid , so accurate , so terrible in its confession of riot and dismay , the editor refused to print it . `` Why not ? '' John sternly demanded .