Part 26 (2/2)

Al raised his voice. ”This is the house of Doctor Falkner,” he said. ”I know him well; he is a Union man. Treat the house as well as you can, boys.” To Wallace he added, ”My father sold him all this furniture and these carpets.”

The soldiers glanced at him curiously. This regard for property in the midst of battle was unusual. But the Sergeant answered, as he thrust his musket barrel through the chair legs,

”Sure, we'll treat it as well as we can.”

The Confederates beyond the front fence seemed all at once to have become tired. They declined to be coaxed or urged forward by their officers, but from behind their hiding-places they kept up a constant pop-popping of muskets and carbines which gradually reduced all the doors and windows on that side of the house to kindlings. Framed pictures on the opposite walls were punctured, and here and there light from the adjoining rooms shone through holes in the plastering. A soldier in the parlor was desperately wounded and lay in a stupor on a spot of the plush carpet which was sopping wet with blood, his head pillowed on a gay silk sofa cus.h.i.+on. Now and then other soldiers dodged into or out of the house through doorways on the side opposite to the enemy, and once the officer who had directed the fight at the creek came in, but finding the Sergeant in charge, left immediately. Time seemed to stand still. The little garrison, wrapped in the absorbing occupation of pumping lead at the almost invisible enemy in front, took no note of its pa.s.sage.

Outside, a steady, rattling roar seemed to envelop the whole town and country around, pierced constantly by human voices, shouting, pleading or commanding, now near and again distant. Once Al, his throat parched with the choking fumes of confined powder smoke, darted back to the kitchen in search of water. While he was drinking he heard a slight creak and rustle, audible in the uproar by reason of its very lightness, and, looking around, he saw a woman standing on the top step of the cellar stairs, her hand on the door k.n.o.b. He had to look twice before he knew her, for when he had last seen her, her hair, now iron gray, was brown, and her face, now wrinkled, was smooth and youthful.

”Why, Mrs. Falkner!” he stammered. ”Why, are you here?”

She peered at him. ”Al Briscoe!” she exclaimed, in a trembling voice.

”What on earth--why, how you've grown!”

She uttered the commonplace remark almost mechanically. She seemed hardly to know what she was doing.

”Mrs. Falkner, you are in great danger here,” cried Al.

”No, no; I am down cellar. I am safe if the house doesn't burn. Is it on fire?”

”No, but it is being riddled with bullets.”

”That is not so bad as fire,” she answered, putting her hand weakly to her head. ”You will try to keep it from burning, won't you, Al?”

”I will do all I can, Mrs. Falkner,” he answered, and before he could say more she pulled the cellar door shut and disappeared.

He ran back to the front of the house. The Sergeant was peeping excitedly past the edge of the parlor window. Directly he drew back, crying,

”They're tryin' to get between us an' the next house!” He jabbed a commanding forefinger at Al and Wallace. ”Here, you--you; jump upstairs.

Shoot at 'em from the back windows. Stop 'em!”

The boys leaped up the broad, easy front stairway, three steps at a time, wrenched open a bedroom door at the top and ran to a window looking out over the back porch. Down along the side fence they could see a dozen or more Confederates running, crouching low. They were making for the porch. The boys fired simultaneously and they saw one man drop, then wriggle off through the gra.s.s. Wallace's revolver continued to bark while Al was reloading his musket, but the Confederates cast frightened glances up at their window, and before he was ready to fire again they had run back to the other side of the house once more. The boys looked over the back yard and the town behind it, and their eyes caught the roof of the court house, rising above the trees. A column of black smoke was pouring from it, with a dull glare of flames through and below it. Al caught Wallace by the arm.

”See! The court house is on fire!” he cried. ”And all those thousands of arms are in it.”

Wallace looked at the burning building, then apprehensively back at Al.

”I wonder if a sh.e.l.l did it, or if it's Colonel Harding's orders?”

”There's no telling,” answered Al. ”If it's orders, it means that we're whipped and the court house is being burned to keep the rebs from getting the arms. Listen! Isn't the fire slacking up?”

It was true. The deep boom of the Confederate artillery had died out from among the confused noises of the battle; and as the boys hearkened, the continuous rattle of musketry diminished until only scattered, individual shots could be heard. Then these ceased and a silence followed, almost painful to the ears after the uproar.

”What can it mean?” asked Wallace, in an uneasy tone. Then he went on, hopefully, ”Perhaps the Johnnies have given up the attack.”

They walked to the stairway and, as they went down, saw that the Sergeant had opened the shattered front door and was standing on the porch outside, while a Confederate officer, with a bit of dirty white rag tied to the point of his sabre, was advancing up the walk toward him. Something seemed to warn Al to keep out of sight and he stepped into a corner where he could hear but could not be seen.

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