My Lady of Doubt

by Randall Parrish

  CHAPTER XXXV

  THE FIGHT IN THE HALL

  Scarcely comprehending that Claire had escaped from the room, I was sweptforward by the onrush of bodies. The preacher was knocked headlongbeneath the table, but Fagin lay motionless underfoot. Jones and Grantturned to a door at the right, and I leaped after them. One of the twofired, and the ball struck my shoulder, the impact throwing me backagainst one of my men. An instant I felt sick and dizzy, yet realized Iwas not seriously hurt, and managed to stagger to my feet. The door wasclosed and locked, and, although my head reeled, I began to thinkclearly.

  "The other way, lads!" I cried. "Quick, into the hall!"

  We tumbled out through the narrow entrance, and I found myself next toEric. But we were too late to head off the fugitives, or prevent theirachieving their purpose. In through the rear door, confused as to whathad occurred, yet shouting fiercely, poured Fagin's wolves, seekingtrouble. They were a wild, rough-looking lot, ill-dressed, and dirty evenin that dim light. For an instant, congested within the limits of thehallway, both sides paused, staring at each other in mutual surprise andhesitation. Then I heard Jones's bellow of command, and Grant's nasalvoice profanely ordering them to come on. With us there remained nochoice; we must fight it out where we were, regardless of numbers.

  "Fire! you damned fools--fire!" roared Jones, and there was a crashing ofguns, the dense smoke swirling between us. A Dragoon at my right wentsprawling; another behind gave vent to a yell as he plunged head firstdown the basement stairs. There was the sound of splintering wood, ofbreaking 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, andleaping madly at them. There was little room between the walls, barelyspace for a half-dozen to fight in, shoulder to shoulder, but thosebehind, eager to strike also, pressed us so recklessly that we hurledthem back. To me it was all confusion, uproar, deadly fighting. I couldthink of nothing to right or left, only of the struggling devils in myfront. Faces, forms, came and vanished in the swirl of smoke, browngun-barrels whirled before me, flashes of fire burned my eyes, strangefeatures, bearded, malignant, glared at me. I leaped straight at them,striking fiercely. Once I saw Grant, and aimed a blow at him. Then he wasgone, swallowed in the ruck. There were oaths, shouts, shrieks of pain,groans, the heavy breathing of men, the crunch of feet, the dullreverberation of blows, the continued firing of those behind. It was allan infuriated babel, the smoke thickening until we gasped for breath,barely able to see.

  Our mad onrush swept them back, helpless, demoralized. I stumbled overbodies, 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 wewon our way. Then they could go no further. Blocked, unable to retreat,wedged helplessly against the far end of the hall they turned likecornered rats. I could see nothing of Jones, but I heard him, raging likea fiend.

  "Now, you curs, now!" he stormed. "You cowardly scum--perhaps you'llfight 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 atour feet; by sheer force of numbers they swept us backward. It was handto hand, neither side having time to reload their weapons. The smokerose, permitting a view of the shambles. There was a tangle of arms, ajumble of faces. They were maddened beasts, desperate, revengeful. Handsclutched at us, gun butts were thrust into our faces, the crush too denseto permit of their being swung overhead. My Dragoons had their sabresout, and stood to it like men, the steel blades dripping as they tastedblood. But killing one only brought a new man to the front. One does notsee 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 sergeantshot 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 asI never fought before. Somewhere I had gripped a gun out of dead fingers,and swung it savagely, smashing the stock at the first blow, butretaining the twisted iron. The intensity of excitement seemed to clearmy brain. I began to distinguish voices, to notice faces. I heard Grantyell safely in the rear; I heard Jones's roar, "To hell with 'em! To hellwith 'em!" Out of the murk of struggling figures I made out his blackbeard, the gleam of yellow fangs, and leaped toward him, striking mendown until I was able to swing at his head. He went over like a strickenox under a butcher's axe, knocking aside two men as he fell. It gave mechance to spring back out of the _melee_.

  "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 Iheld 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 stairswith 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 forbreath. There followed a moment's wait, an instant of hesitancy. I beganto see and feel once more. Below us the hall was jammed with men, soclosely pressed together as to be almost helpless. Blood streamed from acut in my forehead, nearly blinding me, but I wiped it away, and took oneglance 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 againstthe wall. Tom and I stood alone, his face blackened by powder, his shirtripped 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 upthere--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 therail. Below us, growling like wild beasts, but seemingly leaderless, themob crushed forward to the foot of the stairs. Suddenly I saw Grant, andthe sight of him gave me new life.

  "You black-faced hound," I called down angrily. "You've kept yourselfsafe so far. Now come on."

  He snarled some answer, what, I know not. There was an empty pistol in mybelt, and I flung it at him with all the force of my arm. He dodged, theweapon striking the man behind. With a howl of rage the fellows leapedtoward us, bearing Grant on the crest of the wave. The pistols of theDragoons cracked; three fell, blocking the stairs with their bodies. Wehad room now in which to swing our iron bars, and we battered them likedemons. I lost sight of Grant, the red drip of blood over my eyes makingall before me a mist. I only knew enough to strike. Yet fight as we couldthere was no holding them. We were forced to give way. Guns began to spitfire. 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 tearloose. Tom reeled against the wall, his arm shattered by a blow, and oneof the men above came tumbling over me, shot dead. The fall of himcleared the stairs an instant; then the rail broke, and several toppledover with it. I stumbled back almost to the top, sweeping the hair andblood out of my eyes. What--what was the matter? They were running, thosefellows down there--struggling, fighting among themselves to get away.Oaths, yells, cries of sudden fear, made a perfect babel. I could notunderstand, could not grasp the meaning of the sudden panic. Who werethose men surging in through the front door, pouring out through thelibrary? 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, myhead hanging over the edge of the stairs. Some hand drew me back, but Ihad no strength left. Only I could think--and the truth came to me.Camden militia! Camden militia! By all the gods, Farrell was there! Itwas the voice of the Irish
minute man heard the night we capturedDelavan's raiders. Then I closed my eyes, and forgot.