These latter began firing at once, their muskets easily covering
the distance, although our lighter weapons were useless.

Yet, beyond keeping us down close to the floor and out of view, this
preliminary firing was but a waste of ammunition, the heavy balls merely
breaking what glass remained, and chugging harmlessly into the walls. We
were ready and waiting, extra loaded guns beside each man, our nerves
throbbing with the excitement of battle, every trooper posted at some
point of vantage for defence. For a few moments the formation of our
assailants was almost completely concealed behind the black musketry
smoke. All else was forgotten except our own part in the tragedy, even
the thunder of artillery deadened by the continuous roll of small arms.
Under the powder cloud the charging line sprang forward, determined to
close in upon us with one fierce dash, almost encircling the house. The
reserves elevated their guns, firing at the upper windows, while those
chosen for the assault leaped forward, yelling as they came. I scarcely
had time to cry a warning, and to hear the echoing shouts of Miles and
Mahoney, before the gray line was on the gravel. It was then we struck
them, every window and door bursting into flame simultaneously, the
deadly lead poured into their very faces. We worked like fiends, the
smoke suffocating, firing as rapidly as we could lay hands to weapons,
seeing nothing but the dim outline of gray-clad men, surging madly
toward us, or hurled back by the flame of our guns. It was hell,
pandemonium, a memory blurred and indistinct; men, stricken to death,
whirled and fell, others ran screaming; they stumbled over prostrate
bodies, and cursed wildly in an effort to advance. Now it was the sharp
spit of revolvers, cracking in deadly chorus. All I knew occurred
directly before me. A dozen or fifteen leaped to the porch floor,
swinging a huge log against the barricaded door. I heard the crash of
it as it fell inward, the cry of men underneath. There was a rush of
feet behind; the flame of revolvers seemed to sear my face, and the log
lay on the porch floor, dead men clinging to it, and not a living
gray-jacket showing under the smoke.

CHAPTER XXXIII

MISS BILLIE REAPPEARS

I was leaning against the side wall, aware I had been wounded yet
scarcely feeling the pain of it, an empty revolver in each hand, blue
smoke curling from the muzzles. For the moment I could not comprehend
what had actually occurre