I had no time to answer, no opportunity to even realize what was meant. There was a fiendish roar, a crash that shook the house to its very foundations, sending us staggering back against the walls. I remember gripping Billie closely, and seeing her white face, even as I warded off with uplifted arm the falling plaster. The soldier was on his knees, grovelling with face against the floor. A great jagged hole appeared in the opposite wall, and I could see daylight through it. My ears roared, my brain reeled.
"Lie down," I cried, forcing her to the floor. "Both of you lie down!"
"And you--you!"
I caught a glimpse of her eyes staring up at me, her arms uplifted.
"I am going to stop this," I answered, "and you must stay here."
I stumbled over the rubbish, with but one thought driving me--the dining-room table, its white cloth, and the possibility of getting outside before those deadly guns could be discharged again. I knew the house was already in ruins, tottering, with huge gaping holes ripped in its sides; that dead men littered the floor; and the walls threatened to fall and bury us. Another round would complete the horror, would crush us into dust. I gripped the cloth, jerking it from the table, stumbling blindly toward the nearest glare of light. There was a pile of shattered furniture in the way, and I tore a path through, hurling the fragments to left and right. I smelt the fumes of powder, the odor of plaster, and heard groans and cries. The sharp barking of carbines echoed to me, and a wild yell rose without. There were others living in the room; I was aware of their voices, of the movement of forms. Yet all was chaos, bewildering confusion. I had but the single thought, could conceive only the one thing. I was outside, gripping the white cloth, clinging with one hand to the shattered casing. Some one called, but the words died out in the roar of musketry. The flame of carbines seemed in my very face, the crack of revolvers at my ears. Then a hand jerked me back head first into the debris. I staggered to my knees, only to hear Mahoney shout,
"They're coomin', lads, they're coomin'! Howly Mary, we've got 'em now!"
"Who's coming?"
"Our own fellars, sorr! They're risin' out o' the groun' yonder loike so many rats. Here they are, byes! Now ter hell wid 'em!"
His words flashed the whole situation back to my consciousness. The house still stood, wrecked by cannon, but yet a protection. To the left our troops were swarming out of the ravine, and forming for a charge, while in front, under the concealment of the smoke, believing us already helpless, the Confederate infantry were rushing forward to complete their work of destruction. We must hold out now, five minutes, ten minutes, if necessary. I got to my feet, gripping a carbine. I knew not if I had a dozen men behind me, but the fighting spirit had come again.
"To the openings, men! To the openings!" I shouted. "Beat them back!"
I heard the rush of feet, the shout of hoarse voices, the crash of furniture flung aside. Bullets from some firing line chugged into the wall; the room was obscured by smoke, noisy with the sharp report of guns. I could dimly see the figures of men struggling forward, and I also made for the nearest light, stumbling over the debris. But we were too late. Already the gray mass were upon the veranda, battering in the door, clambering through the windows, dashing recklessly at every hole cleft by the plunging shells. Rifles flared in our faces; steel flashed, as blade or bayonet caught the glare; clubbed muskets fell in sweep of death; and men, maddened by the fierce passion of war, pushed and hacked their way against our feeble defence, hurling us back, stumbling, fighting, cursing, until they also gained foothold with us on the bloody floor. The memory of it is but hellish delirium, a recollection of fiends battling in a strange glare, amid stifling smoke, their faces distorted with passion, their muscles strained to the uttermost, their only desire to kill. Uniform, organization, were alike blotted out; we scarcely recognized friend or foe; shoulder to shoulder, back to back we fought with whatever weapon came to hand. I heard the crack of rifles; saw the leaping flames of discharge, the dazzle of plunging steel, the downward sweep of musket stocks. There were crash of blows, the thud of falling bodies, cries of agony, and yells of exultation. I was hurled back across the table by the rush, yet fell upon my feet. The room seemed filled with dead men; I stepped upon them as I struggled for the door. There were others with me--who, or how many, I knew not. They were but grim, battling demons, striking, gouging, firing. I saw the gleam of knives, the gripping of fingers, the mad outshooting of fists. I was a part of it, and yet hardly realized what I was doing. I had lost all consciousness save the desire to strike. I know I shouted orders into the din, driving my carbine at every face fronting me; I know others came through the smoke cloud, and we hurled them back, fairly cleaving a lane through them to the hall door. I recall stumbling over dead bodies, of having a wounded man clutch at my legs, of facing that mob with whirling gun stock until the last fugitive was safely behind me, and then being hurled back against the wall by sudden rush.
How I got there I cannot tell, but I was in the hall, my clothing a mass of rags, my body aching from head to foot, and still struggling. About me were men, my own men--pressed together back to back, meeting as best they could the tide pouring against them from two sides. Remorselessly they hurled us back, those behind pushing the front ranks into us. We fought with fingers, fists, clubbed revolvers, paving the floor with bodies, yet inch by inch were compelled to give way, our little circle narrowing, and wedged tighter against the wall. Mahoney had made the stairs, and fought there like a demon until some one shot him down. I saw three men lift the great log which had barricaded the door, and hurl it crashing against the gray mass. But nothing could stop them. I felt within me the strength of ten men; the carbine stock shattered, I swung the iron barrel, striking until it bent in my hands. I was dazed by a blow in the face, blood trickled into my eyes where a bullet had grazed my forehead, one shoulder smarted as though burned by fire, yet it never occurred to me to cease fighting. Again and again the men rallied to my call, devils incarnate now, only to have their formation shattered by numbers. We went back, back, inch by inch, slipping in blood, falling over our own dead, until we were pinned against the wall. How many were on their feet then I shall never know, but I was in the narrow passage beside the stairs alone. Out of the clangor and confusion, the yells and oaths, there came a memory of Billie. My God! I had forgotten! and she was there, crouching in the blackness, not five feet away. The thought gave me the reckless strength of insanity. My feet were upon a rubbish heap of plaster, where a shell had shaken the ceiling to the floor. It gave me vantage, a height from which to strike. Never again will I fight as I did then. Twice they came, and I beat them back, the iron club sweeping a death circle. Somewhere out from the murk two men joined me, one with barking revolver, the other with gleam of steel; together we blocked the passage. Some one on the stairs above reached over, striking with his gun, and the man at my right went down. I caught a glimpse of the other's face--it was Miles. Then, behind us, about us, rose a cheer; something sent me reeling over against the wall, striking it with my head, and I lost consciousness.
I doubt if to exceed a minute elapsed before I was able to lift my head sufficiently to see about me. Across my body sprang a Federal officer, and behind him pressed a surging mass of blue-clad men. They trod on me as though I were dead, sweeping their way forward with plunging steel. Others poured out of the parlor, and fought their way in through the shattered front door. It was over so quickly as to seem a dream--just a blue cloud, a cheer, a dozen shots, those heavy feet crunching me, the flicker of weapons, a shouted order, and then the hall was swept bare of the living, and we lay there motionless under the clouds of smoke. The swift reaction left me weak as a child, yet conscious, able to realize all within range of my vision. My fingers still gripped the carbine barrel, and dripping blood half blinded me. Between where I lay and the foot of the stairs were bodies heaped together, dead and motionless most of them, but with here and there a wounded man struggling to extricate himself. They were clad in gray and blue, but with clothing so torn, so blackened by powder, or reddened by blood, as to be almost indistinguishable. The walls were jabbed and cut, the stair-rail broken, the chandelier crushed into fragments. Somehow my heart seemed to rise up into my throat and choke me--we had accomplished it! We had held the house! Whether for death or life, we had performed our duty.
I could hear the echoing noises without; above the moans and cries, nearer at hand, and even drowning the deep roar of the guns, sounded the sturdy Northern cheers. They were driving them, and after the fight, those same lads would come back, tender as women, and care for us. It was not so bad within, now the smoke was drifting away, and nothing really hurt me except my shoulder. It was the body lying half across me that held me prone, and I struggled vainly to roll it to one side. But I had no strength, and the effort was vain. The pain made me writhe and moan, my face beaded with perspiration. A wounded man lifted his arm from out a tangled heap of dead, and fired a revolver up into the ceiling; I saw the bullet tear through the plaster, and the hand sink back nerveless, the fingers dropping the weapon. The sounds of battle were dying away to the eastward; I could distinguish the volleys of musketry from the roar of the big guns. I worked my head about, little by little, until I was able to see the face of the man lying across me. It was ghastly white, except where blood discolored his cheek, and I stared without recognition. Then I knew he must be Miles. Oh, yes, I remembered; he had come up at the very last, he and another man, and one had been knocked down when the stair-rail broke. I wondered how they came to be there; who the other man was. I felt sorry for Miles, sorry for that girl back in Illinois he had told me about. I reached back and touched his hand--it felt warm still, and, in some manner, I got my fingers upon his pulse. It beat feebly. Then he was not dead--not dead! Perhaps if I could get up, get him turned over, it might save his life. The thought brought me strength. Here was something worthy the effort --and I made it, gritting my teeth grimly to the pain, and bracing my hands against the wall. Once I had to stop, faint and sick, everything about swimming in mist; then I made the supreme effort, and turned over, my back against the wall, and Miles' ghastly face in my lap. I sat staring at it, half demented, utterly helpless to do more, my own body throbbing with a thousand agonies. Some poor devil shrieked, and I trembled and shook as though lashed by a whip. Then a hand fell softly on my forehead, and I looked up dizzily, half believing it a dream, into Billie's eyes. She was upon her knees beside me, her unbound hair sweeping to the floor, her face as white as the sergeant's.
"And you live?--you live!" she cried, as though doubting her own eyes. "O God, I thank you!"
It was impossible for me to speak. Twice I endeavored, but no sound came from my parched lips, and I think my eyes must have filled with tears, her dear face was so blurred and indistinct. She must have understood, for she drew my head down upon her shoulder, pressing back the matted hair with one hand.
"My poor boy!" she whispered sobbingly. "My poor boy!"
"And you--you are injured?" I managed to ask with supreme effort.
"No, not physically--but the horror of it; the thought of you in midst of that awful fighting! Oh, I never knew before what fiends men can become. This has taught me to hate war," and she hid her face against my cheek. "I was in that dark corner against the wall; I saw nothing, yet could not stop my ears. But this sight sickens me. I--I stood there holding onto the rail staring at all those dead bodies, believing you to be among them. I thought I should go mad, and then--then I saw you."
Her words--wild, almost incoherent--aroused me to new strength of purpose. To remain idle there, amid such surroundings, would wreck the girl's reason.
"It was a desperate struggle, lass," I said, "but there are living men here as well as dead, and they need help. Draw this man off me, so I can sit up against the wall. Don't be afraid, dear; that is Miles, and he is yet alive. I felt his pulse a moment ago, and it was still beating."
She shrank from the grewsome task, her hands trembling, her face white, yet she drew the heavy body back, resting the head upon the pile of plaster. The next moment her arms were about me, and I sat up supported by her shoulder. Even this slight movement caused me to clinch my teeth in agony, and she cried out,
"You are hurt? Tell me the truth!"
"My shoulder and side pain me," I admitted, "but they are nothing to worry over. Can you find water?"
"Yes," eager now for action. She was gone not to exceed a minute, returning with a pail and cloth, and dropping again on her knees, began bathing my face.
"It is a charnel house, with dead lying everywhere. I had to step across their bodies to get to the kitchen, and stopped to give one poor wounded lad a drink. Oh, I never can blot this scene out; it will haunt me in my dreams." Tears were in her eyes, and stealing down her cheeks, but there was no faltering. Softly she bathed the wound on my head, and bound it up. Then she kissed me. "Will they never come to help us?" she cried, lifting her eyes from mine. "Hear that man yonder groan. What can I do, Robert? I cannot sit still here!"
"Try to revive Miles," I suggested, pointing to him. "You heard what he replied when I called him just before the charge. He had caught the murderer, and, if he dies, we may never know the man's identity. Here, Billie, take this cloth and sprinkle water on his face. Don't mind me any more; I am all right now."
She started to do as I requested but had scarcely dampened the rag when a man came in through the wrecked door, picked his way forward a couple of steps, and stopped, staring about at the scene. Behind him were other figures blocking the entrance. Apparently we were indistinguishable from where he stood, for he called out,
"Is there any one alive here?"
I heard a weak response or two, and then answered, "A few, yes--back here behind the stairs."
He moved to one side, shading his eyes with one hand so as to see better. I could tell now he wore the uniform of a Federal officer, but was unable to distinguish his rank. The sight of the girl, standing in the midst of all that horror, her loosened hair falling below her waist, evidently startled him. An instant he stared toward us incredulously; then removed his hat.
"Who are you?"
"I am Lieutenant Galesworth," I answered, although his question was directed to her. "And this lady is Miss Hardy, the daughter of Major Hardy of the Confederate army."
"This, I believe, was the Hardy plantation?"
"Yes--she was present throughout the fight."
"I understand. By all the gods, I thought I had gone crazy when I first saw her. A woman in such a scene as this seemed impossible. Here, men, quick now," and he turned to his following, pointing. "There were several voices answered among those lying there. Place the dead against the wall, and," glancing through the doorway beside him, "carry the wounded into the parlor. Corporal, you and one man come with me."
He stepped across carefully, picking a way between the bodies.
"Galesworth, did you say? Then you were in command here?"
I bowed, feeling as I did so that Billie had slipped her hand into mine.
"Great fight you made," he went on warmly. "Perfect shambles, outside the house as well as in. Nothing like it in my experience. I am Doctor McFarlan, Surgeon Medical Corps. Much hurt yourself?"
"Nothing serious, I think, Doctor. Shoulder and side pain some, but I want you to look at this fellow. He was my sergeant, and seems to be alive."
The shrewd gray eyes surveyed us quizzically.
"Exactly, I see," he replied. "Love and war--the old story. Ah! that brought a little red into your cheeks, my girl. Well, it's good for you. Which is the man?--this one? Here, Corporal, lift his head, and you, Jones, bring me the water; easy now."
I drew her closer to me, our eyes on the surgeon and Miles. The former worked with swift professionalism, forgetful of all else in his task, yet commenting audibly.
"Ah, a bad blow, a bad blow; however, skull intact; concussion merely. Bullet wound right chest--must probe for it later; right arm broken; not likely to see any more of this war. Live? Of course he'll live, so far as I can see. Tough as a knot--country stock, and that's the best kind; constitution pull him through. More water, Jones; that's it, my lad--yes, you're all right now, and among friends. Lift him up higher, Corporal. Do you begin to see things?--know that man over there?"
Miles looked at me dully, but slowly the light of returning intelligence came into his eyes.
"The lieutenant?" he asked weakly, "the lieutenant?"
"Yes, Sergeant," I replied eagerly, "we're both here, but we're about all there is left."
"Did they come, sir? Did our boys get here?"
"Did they!" broke in the surgeon, his face glowing. "It was like bees out of a hive the way they came up from that ravine. The lads had been held back until they were mad clear through. The moment they saw what was going on they broke for the house; never waited for orders, or formation--just made a run for it. I guess they didn't get here any too soon either. Well, that's all I can do for you now, son. Jones, you stay here until I come back--you know what to do."
Miles' eyes followed him; then he looked at the dead bodies, shuddering, his hands to his face. When he took them down again he seemed to see Billie for the first time.
"You--you here, Miss! Oh, I remember now; it had been knocked plum out o' me. Did he get away?"
"Who?"
"That feller who knifed Burke. I had him all right, sir, back in the coal cellar. He'd crawled away there into one corner, an' it was dark as hell--beg your pardon, Miss." The sergeant sank back against Jones' shoulder, and the man wet his lips with water. "I couldn't see only the mere outline of him, and didn't dare crawl in, for I knew he had a knife. All I could do was cover him with a gun, an' try to make him come out. That's what I was up to when you called. Damned if I knew what to do then--there was some racket up stairs, let me tell you, an' I knew there was a devil of a fight goin' on. I wanted to be in it the worst way, but I couldn't find it in my heart to let that devil loose again. Finally I got desperate, an' grabbed him by the leg, an' hauled him out, spittin' and fightin' like a cat. He cut me once, before I got a grip on his wrist, an' my gun shoved against him. Then he went weak as a rag. But I wan't thinkin' much except about the fracas up stairs--the boys catchin' hell, an' me not with 'em. So I didn't fool long with that feller. I just naturally yanked him 'long with me up stairs into the kitchen, an' flung him down against the wall. I got one glance out into the hall, an' didn't care no more what become o' him. You was facin' the whole mob of 'em, swingin' a gun barrel, an' I knew where I belonged. But damned if that feller didn't startle me. He was up like a flash to his feet, an' I thought he was trying to get me. But he wasn't. When I run to you, he wasn't two steps behind, an' may I be jiggered, sir, if he didn't jump in there on your right, an' fight like a wild man. That's all I saw, just the first glimpse. He sure went into it all right, but I don't know how he come out."
"Well, I do; I happened to see that myself, though I hardly know how. He was clubbed with a musket from the stairs. The man who hit him fell when the railing broke. The two of them must be lying over there now. Who was he, Miles? Did you know him?"
The sergeant wiped the perspiration from his face with his sleeve, and Jones moistened his lips again. I felt Billie's grasp tighten, and her hair brush my cheek.
"Well, I thought I did, sir," he admitted at last, but as though not wholly convinced, "only I don't like to say till you have a look at the lad. He was dead game anyhow, I'll say that for him, an' I don't feel just sure. I never got eyes on him in daylight, an' when I yanked him out o' the coal hole he was mostly black. Maybe that's him over there, sir."
The hospital squad had cleared out much of the front hall, but had not reached the plaster pile where we had made our last stand. Those that were left were mostly clad in gray, but over against the stairs, one leg and arm showing, was a blue uniform. The hospital men came back, and I called to them,
"Sergeant, there is one of our men lying in that pile. Will you lift him up so I can see the face?"
This was the work of a moment only, and for an instant no one spoke. Disfigured as the face was, blackened and bloody, there could be no mistake in identity--it was that of Charles Le Gaire.
"Why--why," exclaimed Billie, thunderstruck. "I know him, but I cannot remember. Who is the man?"
It was all clear enough to me now; I only wondered at not suspecting the truth before. After guiding us up the ravine he had not returned to camp, but remained, intent on revenge, feeling that this was an opportunity for vengeance which would insure his own safety. Yet she did not know, did not understand, and it must all be explained to her. Miles broke in impatiently.
"Ain't it the same nigger, sir, what brought us up here?"
"Yes," I said, but with my eyes on the girl's face. "Billie, listen, dear. The man was Le Gaire's servant, his slave, but also his son. He was here with his master, but you never knew of the real relationship between them. The boy was our guide last night, and he told me his story--of how justly he hated Le Gaire. Shall I tell it to you now, or wait? The doctor is coming."
She glanced from my face up into that of the approaching surgeon. The hospital squad, at the nod of command, were bearing the body down the hall.
"Tell me now."
"It will require but a moment, dear. It was because this Charles Le Gaire had lived here that I asked for him as a guide. He agreed to come as far as the end of the ravine only, as he did not wish to be recognized. Then he disappeared, and, I supposed, returned to camp. Instead, he evidently stole into the house. He was Captain Le Gaire's son by a slave mother. Bell told me later that the mother was sent back into the fields, and died as a result. That would account for the hate the boy felt against the father."
"How--how old was he?" her trembling lips white.
"Not over eighteen."
Billie hid her face on my shoulder, sobbing silently. A moment the surgeon stood looking down at us compassionately.
"I am going to have both you and your sergeant taken up stairs," he said at last. "Come, Miss Hardy, you have no right to break down now."
It was sundown, and silent without, except for voices and the constant movement of men. The din of battle, the roar of guns, had ceased, and everywhere gleamed the light of fires where the tired commands rested. The house stood, shattered but stanch, great gaping holes in its side, the front a mere wreck, the lower rooms in disorder, with windows smashed, and pools of hardening blood staining the floors. Appearing from without a ruin, it yet afforded shelter to the wounded.
I had had my own wounds washed and cared for. They were numerous enough and painful--an ugly slash in the side, a broken rib, the crease of a bullet across the temple, and a shoulder crushed by a terrific blow, together with minor bruises from head to heels--and yet none to be considered serious. They had carried me up the shattered stairs to her room, and I lay there bolstered up by soft pillows, and between clean sheets, my eyes, feverish and wide-awake, seeking out the many little things belonging to her scattered about, ever reminded of what had occurred, and why I was there, by my own ragged, stained uniform left lying upon a chair. I could look far away out of the northern window from where I rested, could see the black specks of moving columns of troops beyond the orchard, the vista extending as far as the log church, including a glimpse of the white pike. The faint odor of near-by camp-fires reached my nostrils, and the murmur of voices was wafted to me on the slight breeze. Some lad was singing not far away, although the words could not be distinguished, and from the farther distance sounded clearly a cavalry bugle. I could hardly realize, hardly comprehend what it all meant. It hurt me to move, and the fever made me half delirious. I fingered the soft, white sheets almost with awe, and the pillows seemed hot and smothering. Every apartment in the house held its quota of wounded, and down below the busy surgeons had transformed the parlor into an operating room. In spite of my closed door I could overhear occasionally a cry of pain.
Yet I was only conscious of wanting one presence --Billie. I could not understand where she had gone, why she had left me. She had been there, over in the far corner, her face hidden in her hands, when the surgeon probed my wounds. She had been beside me when he went out, her soft hand brushing back my hair. I remembered looking up at her, and seeing tears in the gray-blue eyes. Then some one had come to the door, and, after speaking, she came back to me, kissed me, said something softly, and went out, leaving me alone. I could not recall what it was she said. That must have been an hour, maybe two hours, ago, for it was already growing dusk. I do not know whether I thought or dreamed, but I seemed to live over again all the events of the past few days. Every incident came before me in vividness of coloring, causing my nerves to throb. I was riding with Billie through the early morning, and seeing her face for the first time with the sunlight reflected in her smiling eyes; I was facing Grant, receiving orders; I was struggling with Le Gaire, his olive face vindictive and cruel; I was with Billie again, hearing her voice, tantalized by her coquetry; then I was searching for Le Gaire's murderer, and in the fight, slashing madly at the faces fronting me. It must have been delirium, the wild fantasy of fever, for it was all so real, leaving me staring about half crazed, every nerve throbbing. Then I sank back dazed and tired, sobbing from the reaction, all life apparently departed from the brain. I could not realize where I was, or how I got there, and a memory of mother came gliding in to take Billie's place. I was in the old room at home, the old room with the oak tree before the window, and father's picture upon the wall at the foot of the bed. I thought it was mother when she came in, and it was the touch of mother's hand that fell so soft and tender upon my temple, soothing the hot pain. Gradually the mists seemed to drift away, and I saw the gray-blue eyes, and Billie.
She was kneeling there beside me clasping one of my hands, and she looked so happy, the old, girlish smile upon her lips.
"You have been away so long," I began petulantly, but she interrupted,
"No, dear, scarcely fifteen minutes, and I have had such good news. I hurried back just to share it with you. The doctor says you are going to get well, that all you need is nursing, and--and I have heard from father."
I looked at her, dimly understanding, and beginning to reflect her own happiness.
"How did you hear? Is he a prisoner?"
"Oh, no! Could I be happy under those conditions? He is unhurt, and has sent for me. General Johnston despatched an officer through the lines with a flag of truce. He was brought here, and that was why I left you. He had a letter for me, and authority to conduct me back to the general's headquarters. Was not that thoughtful of them?"
"Yes," I answered wearily, clinging to her hand, "and--and you are going now? You came to say good-bye?"
"You poor boy, do you really think that? Shall I tell you what message I sent back?"
My face must have answered, for she lowered her head until her cheek rested against mine, her eyes hidden.
"I--I said I would stay here with my soldier."
I was still a long while it seemed to me, our hands clasped, our cheeks pressing. I could feel her soft breath, and the strands of her hair.
"Billie, there is no regret, no doubt any more?" I asked falteringly. "It is all love for me?"
"All love," she answered, moving just enough so that our eyes met. "You are my world forever."
"And that uniform yonder--it is no barrier, dear? I am still a Federal officer."
She glanced at the rags, and then back into my face.
"Sweetheart," she whispered gently, "I can be loyal to the South, and to you also--you must be content with that."
Content! It was as though everything else had been forgotten, blotted out. It was almost dark now, and far away the camp-fires blazed red and yellow among the trees. I lay there, gazing out through the open window, her rounded arm under my head, her cheek still pressed tightly against mine. My nerves no longer throbbed, my veins no longer pulsed with fever. She never moved; just held me there against her, and in the silence I fell asleep.
THE END