Part 37 (1/2)
”Now, you curs, now!” he stormed. ”You cowardly sc.u.m--perhaps you'll fight when you can't run! What are you afraid of? There's only a handful, you can chew 'em up, if you will! Push 'em back, there! Push 'em back!”
With a yell of rage, those crushed against the wall hurtled forward, driving the others; men were lifted and hurled at us; others gripped at our feet; by sheer force of numbers they swept us backward. It was hand to hand, neither side having time to reload their weapons. The smoke rose, permitting a view of the shambles. There was a tangle of arms, a jumble of faces. They were maddened beasts, desperate, revengeful. Hands clutched at us, gun b.u.t.ts were thrust into our faces, the crush too dense to permit of their being swung overhead. My Dragoons had their sabres out, and stood to it like men, the steel blades dripping as they tasted blood. But killing one only brought a new man to the front. One does not see so much as feel in such a jumble. Yet I knew we were worsted, outnumbered. They came at us like a battering ram. I saw the sergeant shot through the forehead; I saw Eric go down beneath a crus.h.i.+ng stroke, and roll under my feet. I stepped on bodies, fighting for my own life as I never fought before. Somewhere I had gripped a gun out of dead fingers, and swung it savagely, smas.h.i.+ng the stock at the first blow, but retaining the twisted iron. The intensity of excitement seemed to clear my brain. I began to distinguish voices, to notice faces. I heard Grant yell safely in the rear; I heard Jones's roar, ”To h.e.l.l with 'em! To h.e.l.l with 'em!” Out of the murk of struggling figures I made out his black beard, the gleam of yellow fangs, and leaped toward him, striking men down until I was able to swing at his head. He went over like a stricken ox under a butcher's axe, knocking aside two men as he fell. It gave me chance to spring back out of the _melee_.
”To the stairs, men! The stairs!” I cried. ”We can hold them there!”
I cannot describe now how we made it, but we did. I only know Tom and I held the rear, sweeping circles of death with our whirling gun-barrels, falling back step by step as we fought. At last I felt the bottom stairs with my foot, and heard a voice shout,
”Come up, sir! We'll hold 'em now!”
Then I was above the heads of the mob, gripping the rail, and sobbing for breath. There followed a moment's wait, an instant of hesitancy. I began to see and feel once more. Below us the hall was jammed with men, so closely pressed together as to be almost helpless. Blood streamed from a cut in my forehead, nearly blinding me, but I wiped it away, and took one glance at their angry upturned faces, and gained a glimpse of my own men.
There were but six of us, and one of these lay helpless propped against the wall. Tom and I stood alone, his face blackened by powder, his s.h.i.+rt ripped into rags; the other three were above, pistols in hand.
”Are they loaded?” I gasped.
”Yes, sir.”
”Stand ready then, but look out for above; there was a guard up there--Tom.”
He turned his face slightly.
”Move back a step or two more; we've got to hold them.”
”All right, sir.”
I felt weak from loss of blood, my head reeling, and had to hold to the rail. Below us, growling like wild beasts, but seemingly leaderless, the mob crushed forward to the foot of the stairs. Suddenly I saw Grant, and the sight of him gave me new life.
”You black-faced hound,” I called down angrily. ”You've kept yourself safe so far. Now come on.”
He snarled some answer, what, I know not. There was an empty pistol in my belt, and I flung it at him with all the force of my arm. He dodged, the weapon striking the man behind. With a howl of rage the fellows leaped toward us, bearing Grant on the crest of the wave. The pistols of the Dragoons cracked; three fell, blocking the stairs with their bodies. We had room now in which to swing our iron bars, and we battered them like demons. I lost sight of Grant, the red drip of blood over my eyes making all before me a mist. I only knew enough to strike. Yet fight as we could there was no holding them. We were forced to give way. Guns began to spit fire. I saw the wounded Dragoon dragged down under the feet of the mob; hands gripped my legs, and I kicked at the faces in my effort to tear loose. Tom reeled against the wall, his arm shattered by a blow, and one of the men above came tumbling over me, shot dead. The fall of him cleared the stairs an instant; then the rail broke, and several toppled over with it. I stumbled back almost to the top, sweeping the hair and blood out of my eyes. What--what was the matter? They were running, those fellows down there--struggling, fighting among themselves to get away.
Oaths, yells, cries of sudden fear, made a perfect babel. I could not understand, could not grasp the meaning of the sudden panic. Who were those men surging in through the front door, pouring out through the library? Then a voice roared out:
”Bedad, they're f.a.gin's h.e.l.l-hounds, byes--ter h.e.l.l wid 'em!”
Where had I heard the voice before? I sank down, too weak to stand, my head hanging over the edge of the stairs. Some hand drew me back, but I had no strength left. Only I could think--and the truth came to me.
Camden militia! Camden militia! By all the G.o.ds, Farrell was there! It was the voice of the Irish minute man heard the night we captured Delavan's raiders. Then I closed my eyes, and forgot.
CHAPTER x.x.xVI
SEARCHING FOR CLAIRE
I was unconscious, yet not for long. The first touch of water served to revive me, and I became aware that an arm supported my head, although everything was indistinct before my eyes.
”More water, Mike,” said a voice close at hand. ”Yes, that will do. Where is Farrell? Oh, Dan, this is Major Lawrence.”
”One of the Dragoons said he was in command. Hurt badly?”
”No, I think not; but utterly exhausted, and weak from loss of blood.