The fleeing men were rallied just beyond the negro cabins, cursed by their officers and driven back into line; then moved slowly forward again to their former position in the orchard.  The sudden terror which had smitten them when the silent house burst into death flames, had somewhat worn off, and a desire for revenge succeeded.  I could see the officers passing back and forth talking and gesticulating.  A dozen troopers under a flag of truce came forward to pick up the wounded, and without even challenging we permitted them to do their work.  The house remained quiet, sombre, silent, nothing showing but the dark barrels of our carbines.  The infantry battalion at the gate moved against the left of the cavalry, and couriers were despatched to hurry up more.  Out by the negro quarters a dozen officers held council, pointing at the house, and by gestures designating a plan of attack.  I think they sent for artillery, but none came, and when one of the couriers returned and reported, bringing only another infantry battalion, it was decided to delay the attempt no longer.  They formed this time in double line, sufficiently extended so as to cover the front and two sides of the house, with a squad concealed back of the stable, prepared to rush the kitchen and take us in the rear.  It was not a bad plan had we misjudged it, but the ground was so open nothing could be concealed.  A wagon came up with ammunition, and the men filled their belts.  They moved forward to within long firing distance, the cavalry covering the north side, one battalion of infantry the south, and the other prepared to assail the front.  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