THE FIGHT IN THE HALL
Scarcely comprehending that Claire had escaped from the room, I was swept
forward by the onrush of bodies. The preacher was knocked headlong
beneath the table, but Fagin lay motionless underfoot. Jones and Grant
turned to a door at the right, and I leaped after them. One of the two
fired, and the ball struck my shoulder, the impact throwing me back
against one of my men. An instant I felt sick and dizzy, yet realized I
was not seriously hurt, and managed to stagger to my feet. The door was
closed and locked, and, although my head reeled, I began to think
clearly.
"The other way, lads!" I cried. "Quick, into the hall!"
We tumbled out through the narrow entrance, and I found myself next to
Eric. But we were too late to head off the fugitives, or prevent their
achieving their purpose. In through the rear door, confused as to what
had occurred, yet shouting fiercely, poured Fagin's wolves, seeking
trouble. They were a wild, rough-looking lot, ill-dressed, and dirty even
in that dim light. For an instant, congested within the limits of the
hallway, both sides paused, staring at each other in mutual surprise and
hesitation. Then I heard Jones's bellow of command, and Grant's nasal
voice profanely ordering them to come on. With us there remained no
choice; we must fight it out where we were, regardless of numbers.
"Fire! you damned fools--fire!" roared Jones, and there was a crashing of
guns, the dense smoke swirling between us. A Dragoon at my right went
sprawling; another behind gave vent to a yell as he plunged head first
down the basement stairs. There was the sound of splintering wood, of
breaking glass. I felt the blood in my veins leap to the fever of it.
We were upon the fellows with a rush, firing in their very faces, and
leaping madly at them. There was little room between the walls, barely
space for a half-dozen to fight in, shoulder to shoulder, but those
behind, eager to strike also, pressed us so recklessly that we hurled
them back. To me it was all confusion, uproar, deadly fighting. I could
think of nothing to right or left, only of the struggling devils in my
front. Faces, forms, came and vanished in the swirl of smoke, brown
gun-barrels whirled before me, flashes of fire burned my eyes, strange
features, bearded, malignant, glared at me. I leaped straight at them,
striking fiercely. Once I saw Grant, and aimed a blow at him. Then he was
gone, swallowed in the ruck. There were oaths, shouts, shrieks of pain,
groans, the heavy breathing of men, the crunch of feet, the dull
reverberation of blows, the continued firing of those behind. It was all
an infuriated babel, the smoke thickening until we gasped for breath,
barely able to see.
Our mad onrush swept them back, helpless, demoralized. I stumbled over
bodies, slipped in pools of blood, yet kept my feet. Every muscle ached;
I was cut and pounded, yet drove into the mass, shouting to those behind,
"Come on, lads! Come on! We're driving them!"
A yard, two yards, three,--beyond the door where the men had escaped we
won our way. Then they could go no further. Blocked, unable to retreat,
wedged helplessly against the far end of the hall they turned like
cornered rats. I could see nothing of Jones, but I heard him, raging like
a fiend.
"Now, you curs, now!" he stormed. "You cowardly scum--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 butts 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 crushing 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, smashing 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 hell with 'em! To hell
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 _mêlée_.
"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 shirt
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 Fagin's hell-hounds, byes--ter hell 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 gods, 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.