# The Red Mist/Chapter 31

CHAPTER XXXI
THE END OF DEFENSE
I HAD no time for thought—action called me. Yet her last unfinished sentence rang in my memory. Could it be that she cared also? that out of this strange association there had grown an awakening interest? Could she have meant that? Was that what she sought to say in those final words? God, I would have given much to know, yet the faith that it was so flamed up in my heart instantly, and seemed to blot all else out. For a single moment I stood there motionless, my feet on the lowered trap, dimly conscious of the uproar about me, yet scarcely able to realize the imminence of the peril. They were pouring volleys into the front door—the roaring of discharge ending in the sound of splintered wood, and sharp cries of pain. Carbines cracked in response, and Harwood's voice sounded continually through the hideous discord.
"Get back, men! get back! ay, beyond the partition, you fellows in front there! No, don't leave the windows; they'll charge presently, and there is no use firing those carbines now—the range is too ​long. Load again—load! and stand ready. Wyatt!"
"Here, sir."
"Any work for you there?"
"No; only a half dozen Yanks in sight from this end."
"Bring all but two men, and come here! Wharton, O'Hare, stand ready to take a hand. Ah! there the blue-bellies come, lads—now give them the lead! fire! damn you—fire!"
The little squad of us leaped down the aisle, and Wharton's and O'Hare's men clambered over the benches, cursing and yelling. Already the smoke of the carbines filled the church, and we could see little except in the flash of the gun-fire. The swirl of bodies hurled me to the right, away from where Harwood stood, and brought me in front of the opposite door. Through this opening, and the narrow window beyond, I got a glimpse outside—at a black mass of men sweeping straight toward us, their guns gleaming viciously, their voices echoing in savage shout. It was a mere glimpse, an infernal vision, and, almost at the same instant, they came crashing against the shattered door, beating it down with their gun-stocks, and leaping through into the maze of overturned benches littering the vestibule. The door fell in splinters, the frenzied assailants plunging ​headlong among the debris, yet hurled forward by the mad impetus of those behind. The discharge of guns lit up the restricted space with red glare, giving us sight of faces, of brandished weapons, of wiggling, advancing forms. It was a glimpse into the pit, a scene of horror never to be effaced from memory. How they got through that tangle of death I know not. Into their very faces we poured our fire—our own men, caught within the narrow space, striking at them with clubbed guns—but they were too many to be held. Over the dead poured the torrent of living, firing, cursing, striking, jamming the few gray-jackets against the inner wall, and, in two resistless streams, hurling themselves against both vestibule doors.
Wedged in the portals I saw all this so clearly that each detail stands out in memory—the infuriated faces, the fallings bodies, the disfiguring blood-stains, the savage glint of steel. Those who came first were not soldiers—they were Cowan's men, gaunt, rough fellows, bearded and dirty, their fierce curses sounding above the uproar. And they fought like fiends, driven by Cowan's voice, and pressed remorselessly forward by the cavalrymen behind. I saw him once, a blood spot on his cheek, and I fired over the heads of those between us, but though he fell, he came to his feet again and was ​swept to one side by the rush of men. I saw all this, and no more; it was like a flash on the screen —and then everything became an indistinct blur. They were upon us, jammed in the narrow doorways, each man fighting for life. I used gun and revolver, fist and stock; I knew not who stood, who fell; in the red mist before me were black shapes, hateful faces, and I struck to kill. Twice I lost foot and fell, but was up again, fronting them. I stepped on dead bodies, slipped in pools of blood; falling men caused me to stagger; a slug of lead tore burning through my shoulder; a glancing knife blade ripped my forearm. I had no time, no room, in which to reload; my hands gripped the hot carbine barrel, and I swung the stock like a flail.
It was stifling—I could hardly breathe; the room choked with smoke, our bodies reeking with sweat. A gripping hand ripped my shirt open, clutching for the throat, and I jabbed carbine barrel into the bearded face. Yet we could not hold; could not stand against that torrent—there were not enough of us. Inch by inch they won through the door; we could kill, but not stop them, and they hurled us back, stumbling over the dead, clambering across overturned benches, but unable to stem the increasing tide. We were all together now—Harwood, Wharton, O'Hare—the sole handful left, and ​we made a fight of it, the best we could. There was a moment's pause, the merest instant in which to breathe, and my eyes met Harwood's. He was naked to the waist, hatless, blood dripping from a cut over one eye, the stock of his carbine shattered.
"Ah, gunner of Staunton," he called out cheerily, although his voice cracked with dryness. "Didn't I tell you if you wanted a good time to jine the cavalry."
"Forward, men! forward!" It was Fox's voice, although I saw nothing of him. "Once more, and it's over with—forward!"
"Now, lads, meet them!" burst out Harwood. "About me, Third Kentucky—here they come!"
They drove us in so as to encircle us, yet the jumble of benches served as some protection to our rear. Perhaps the fact that there were Yankees between us and the pulpit prevented firing for we met hand to hand in a death grapple. I have seen battles, yet nothing like that; it was as though beasts of the jungle fought; men struggled with naked hands, struck death blows, fired into each other's faces, trampled over writhing bodies, cursing, or yelling defiance as they fell. We scarcely knew friend from foe, blue from gray. I cannot even tell what occurred to myself in those breathless moments. I know I fought madly, blindly—again and again ​sweeping a space clear with my weapon; hands gripped my throat, my hair, and I tore loose; fingers clutched at my legs, but I kicked free. I was conscious of blows, of wounds; I knew when Harwood fell, and was trampled under foot; I heard O'Hare scream; I saw the hated face of Anse Cowan in the ruck and leaped for him, but who my mad blow struck I could not tell. Some rush, some quick pressure of bodies, hurled me side-wise, caught me in a vise; I tripped over a dead man, staggered to my feet again. I got footing on the pulpit platform, and held it for an instant, my gun-barrel crashing into the mass of faces below. Wharton joined me, a bull mad with rage; I saw him rend the pulpit stand from the floor, and hurl it with all his strength into the ruck. Then twenty hands gripped him, hauling him down, a clubbed musket descended, and the sergeant pitched forward like a log of wood. There was a shot, the blow of a rifle barrel, and I went down, the very breath of life seemingly knocked out of me.
I fell on the platform, back of where the pulpit desk had stood, and a body lay across me. If I lost consciousness it was for no more than an instant, yet my whole body felt numbed and useless. I could scarcely move my fingers to unclasp them from the gun-barrel, and every breath I drew was in pain. ​Still I realized all that happened, distinguished voices, and the shuffling of feet on the puncheon floor. I heard Fox shouting orders, as the mad hubbub ceased.
"That's enough! that's enough, men! It's all over with. Here, Sergeant, round up those prisoners; God knows there are few enough of the poor devils left. Guard those able to walk outside. Now, Herzog, carry the wounded over here. What? Why, of course, you idiot, we are not savages—those fellows fought like men, and are to be treated decently. No distinction, mind you. Let the dead lie where they are till daylight, but don't overlook a wounded man. Where's Cowan? does anybody know?"
"Shot, sir; he's here in this pile somewhere."
"See if the fellow is alive. Who is his lieutenant?"
"I am, sir; my name's Kelly."
"Well get your damn crew of scoundrels out of here, what's left of them. Do you hear! This is soldier work, and I want you fellows outside."
"You used us all right when thar wus fightin' ter do—"
"That's enough, Kelly. I didn't use you—Moran did; and you can go to him with your complaints. I know how you treat prisoners, and would ​hang the whole of you, if I had my way. Now get out, and don't answer me—those are your orders. Lieutenant Raymond."
"He was here a minute ago, sir," a voice answered from the vestibule, "but he went outside. I think he was touched a little in one arm."
"Pity it wasn't in the mouth; has anyone seen a woman?"
No one answered.
"No! that's strange! Here Green, take a couple of men, and feel your way along the walls; Jasper make a light of some kind—who wants me? Colonel Moran? Tell him I am the only officer present, and I can't leave. By God! the place is a shamble!"
The searching party was to the right of me, against the black shadow of the wall. It was darker than ever in the church, as though a cloud obscured the moon, but far away a ruddy glow reflected along the beams overhead, as someone coaxed a reluctant torch into flames. A medley of sound arose all about me—the mutter of voices, the shuffling of feet, groans, and cries for assistance, with the occasional thumping of a musket stock on the floor, and the rattle of broken glass. This was my chance, my one and only chance to slip away unobserved. In five minutes more the searching party would find me ​there, and bear me along with the others. I wiggled out from under the weight of the body lying across my legs, and groped about in the dark until my fingers encountered the ring embedded in the floor. I still lay thus, conscious of soreness in every muscle, afraid of attracting some eye if I moved, when a man leaped onto the platform, and strode across to the nearest window, his rough shoe actually grazing my hand as he passed. I heard him call some order to those without; then the thud of horses' hoofs to the left. The fellow leaned far out, watching.
There would be no better time than this, for no one else was within thirty feet of me, and the light of the sputtering torch still left the pulpit platform in shadow; Fox was at the other end of the church, his sharp voice rasping out orders. I got to my knees, and lifted the trap barely far enough to squeeze through. There was a gleam of light below, sufficient to reveal the dark outline of the steps leading down. Some eye might distinguish the glimmer, yet I thrust my body through the narrow opening noiselessly, and lowered the cover to the floor level. There was no cry, no sound indicating that the movement had been observed. I waited an instant, crouched breathlessly on the upper step, listening. Someone walked across, directly over my ​head—the fellow who had been at the window, no doubt—and jumped from the platform to the floor. My eyes surveyed those contracted surroundings curiously. The candle, a mere fragment, burned dimly in one corner, revealing what appeared to be the interior of a huge box, with a platform built half across it, its outer edge protected by a low rail. The wood was damp, and water-soaked, half way up, but there was no unpleasant odor. A small wheel ingeniously arranged to operate a lever, occupied one end of the platform, and directly across was an opening in the side wall next the floor, barely large enough for a man's body to squeeze into. Nothing else was visible; no evidence left of the two who had already passed that way.
I slipped down the steps, and lowered my body silently to the damp floor. An instant I peered into the dark hole, satisfied that I could make the passage, and then extinguished the light. The conduit was stone-lined, but the blocks had been smoothly set, and, I knew, from the crisp freshness of the air, that the distance to be traversed was short. I entered the hole head first, dragging and pushing with hands and feet, eager to get quickly into the open. My body so blocked the opening that I felt stifled, nor could I perceive any gleam of light ahead, yet the passage was not really a difficult one, and almost ​before I realized the possibility, my head and shoulders emerged into the outer air and I hung suspended over a rock ledge, staring blindly down into the unknown depths of a ravine. The ledge itself was barely wide enough to afford foothold, yet I succeeded in creeping out upon it, and then in standing upright. The shoulder of the hill was sufficiently steep and high to shut out all view of the log walls of the church, while below was a black void, out from which arose the faint splashing of distant water. But the church itself must have been lit up by this time, for a reddish glow of light tipped the bank above, and bridged the dark ravine. The rock ledge extended to the right, a fairly smooth path, and I followed it cautiously, finding no other available passage. It led gradually downward, until it seemed to merge into a beaten track, running directly south through a tangle of underbrush not far above the stream. The way was intensely black, yet not difficult to follow by the sense of touch, while the incessant roar of the nearby water blotted out all sound from above. Once I heard the crack of guns, but they sounded at a distance, and, looking up, I could perceive the red reflection on the trees lining the bank far above. But for these I was plunged in a black solitude, through which I must grope my way, each step liable to plunge me into ​uncertain peril. A hundred yards, two hundred, and the trail swerved more to the right, and began to mount upward, zig-zagging among the trees. Slowly, cautiously, my head arose above the crest, and the moon, just peering out from behind the edge of a cloud, gave me glimpse along the level plateau.