as 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