I stumbled over the rubbish, with but one thought driving me—­the dining-room table, its white cloth, and the possibility of getting outside before those deadly guns could be discharged again.  I knew the house was 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 recklessly at every hole cleft by the plunging shells.  Rifles flared in our faces; steel flashed, as blade or bayonet caught the glare; clubbed muskets fell in sweep of death; and men, maddened by the fierce passion of war, pushed and hacked their way against our feeble defence,