Love Under Fire by Randall Parrish

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CHAPTER XXXV

THE DEAD MAN

The match flared out, burning Miles' fingers so he dropped it still
glowing on the floor. We could yet distinguish dimly the outlines of the
man's form at our feet, and I heard Billie come down the stairs behind
us. There was no other sound, except our breathing.

"Strike another, Sergeant," I commanded, surprised by the sound of my
own voice, "and we'll see who the fellow is."

He experienced difficulty making it light, but at last the tiny blaze
illumined the spot where we stood. I bent over, dreading the task, and
turned the dead man's face up to the flare. He was a man of middle age,
wearing a closely trimmed chin beard. I failed to recognize the
countenance, and glanced up questioningly at Miles just as he uttered an
exclamation of surprise.

"It's one of Mahoney's fellows, sir," he asserted sharply. "Burke's the
name."

"Then he couldn't possibly be the same man Miss Hardy saw up stairs
that first time."

"No, sir, this don't help none to clear that affair up. But it's Burke
all right, an' he's had a knife driven through his heart. What do you
ever suppose he could 'a' been doin' down here?"

"Where was he stationed?"

"He was with me till that last shindy started; then when you called for
more men in the kitchen I sent him an' Flynn out there."

Miles lit a third match, and I looked about striving to piece together
the evidence. I began to think I understood something of what had
occurred. This soldier, Burke, was a victim, not an assailant. He lay
with his hand still clasping the bar which had locked the door. He had
been stabbed without warning, and whoever did the deed had escaped over
the dead body. I stepped back to where I could see the full length of
the cellar; the trap door leading up into the kitchen stood wide open.
Convinced this must be the way Burke had come down, I walked over to the
narrow stairs, and thrust my head up through the opening. There were six
men in the room, and they stared at me in startled surprise, but came
instantly to their feet.

"When did Burke go down cellar?" I asked briefly.

The man nearest turned to his fellows, and then back toward me, feeling
compelled to answer.

"'Bout ten minutes ago, wasn't it, boys?"

"Not mor 'n that, sir."

"What was he after?"

"Well, we got sorter dry after that las' scrimmage, an' Jack here said
he reckoned thar'd be something ter drink down stairs; he contended that
most o' these yer ol' houses had plenty o' good stuff hid away. Finally
Burke volunteered to go down, an' see what he could find. We was waitin'
fer him to com' back. What's happened ter Burke, sir?"

"Knifed."

"Killed! Burke killed! Who did it?"

"That is exactly what I should like to find out. There is some one in
this house masquerading in our uniform who must be insane. He killed a
Confederate captain this morning, crushed in his skull with a revolver
butt, and now he has put a knife into Burke. Has any one come up
these steps?"

"Not a one, sir."

"And I was at the head of the other stairs. Then he is hiding in the
cellar yet."

Suddenly I remembered that Billie was below exposed to danger; in that
semi-darkness the murderous villain might creep upon her unobserved.
The thought sent a cold chill to my heart, and I sprang down again to
the stone floor.

"Three of you come down, and bring up the body," I called back. "Then
we'll hunt the devil."

She had not left the lower step of the front stairs, but caught my hands
as though the darkness, the dread uncertainty, had robbed her of
all reserve.

"What is it?" she asked. "I do not understand what has happened."

"The man you locked up has escaped," I explained, holding her tightly to
me, the very trembling of her figure yielding me courage. "I haven't the
entire story, but this must be the way of it: One of the men on duty in
the kitchen came down here hunting for liquor. Either the prisoner
called to him, and got him to open the door, or else he took down the
bar while searching. Anyway we found the door ajar, and the
soldier dead."

"Then--then the--the other one is down here somewhere still," cowering
closer against me, and staring about through the gloom. "Who--who are
those men?"

"Soldiers coming for Burke's body--he was the trooper killed. Don't be
afraid, dear--I am here with you now."

"Oh, I know; I would not be frightened, only it is all so horrible. I
am never afraid when I can see and understand what the danger is. You do
not believe me a silly girl?"

"You are the one woman of my heart, Billie," I whispered, bending until
my lips brushed her ear. "Don't draw away, little girl. This is no time
to say such things, I know, but all our life together has been under
fire. It is danger which has brought us to each other."

"Oh, please, please don't."

"Why? Are you not willing to hear me say 'I love you'?"

Her eyes lifted to mine for just an instant, and I felt the soft
pressure of her hand.

"Not now; not here," and she drew away from me slightly. "You cannot
understand, but I feel as though I had no right to love. I bring
misfortune to every one. I cannot help thinking of Captain Le Gaire, and
it seems as if his death was all my fault. I cannot bear to have you say
that now, here," and she shuddered. "When we do not even know how he was
killed, or who killed him. It is not because I do not care, not that I
am indifferent. I hardly know myself."

"Billie," I broke in, "I do understand far better than you suppose. This
affair tests us both. But, dear, I do not know what five minutes may
bring. We shall be attacked again; I expect the alarm every instant, and
I may not come out alive. I must know first that you love me--know it
from your own lips."

She was silent, it seemed to me a long, long while. The three soldiers
went by carrying the dead body, and Miles came to the foot of the
stairs, saw us, and passed along without speaking. Outside was the dull,
continuous roar of musketry, mingled with an occasional yell. Then she
held out both hands, and looked me frankly in the face.

"I am going to be honest," she said softly. "I have loved you ever since
we were at Jonesboro; I--love you now."

I knew this before she spoke; had known it almost from the beginning,
and yet her words, the message of her uplifted eyes, gave me a new
conception of all love meant. A moment I gazed into the blue-gray depths
where her heart was revealed, and then my arms were about her, and our
lips met. Surely no one ever received the gift of love in stranger
situation. On the stairs leading down into that gloomy cellar where a
murderer hid, his victim borne past as we talked; all about us silence
and gloom hiding a mysterious crime; above us the heavy feet of men
treading the echoing floor, and without the ceaseless roar of battle,
volleying musketry, and hoarse shouting. Yet it was all forgotten--the
fierce fighting of the past, the passions of war, the sudden death, the
surrounding peril--and we knew only we were together, alone, the words
of love upon our lips. I felt the pressure of her arms, and crushed her
to me, every nerve throbbing with delight.

"Sweetheart, sweetheart," I whispered, "you have kept me in doubt so
long."

"It has only been because I also doubted," she answered,--"not my love,
but my right to love. To a Hardy honor is everything, and I was bound by
honor. Dear, could you ever think a uniform made any difference?--it is
the man I love." She drew gently back, holding me from her, and yet our
eyes met. "But we must not remain here, thinking only of ourselves, when
there is so much to be done. Remember what is down there, and what
scenes of horror surround us. You have work to do."

The way in which she spoke aroused me as from a dream, yet with a
question upon my lips.

"Yes," I said, "and we are in midst of war--in this are we yet enemies?"

"I am a Southerner," smiling softly, "and I hope the South wins. My
father is out yonder fighting, if he be not already down, and I would do
my best to serve his cause. Do you care for me less because I
confess this?"

"No."

"But now," she went on, more softly still, her words barely audible, "my
heart is with you here; with you, because I love you."

We both glanced up swiftly, startled by the sound of heavy steps in the
upper hall. A man's head was thrust through the half-opened door at the
top of the stairs. Apparently he could not see any distance through the
gloom, and I hailed him, although still retaining my clasp of the
girl's hand.

"What is it, my man?"

"Sergeant Mahoney told me to find the lieutenant."

"Well, you have; I am the one sought. What's happening?"

"They're a-comin', sorr," his voice hoarse with excitement, and waving
one hand toward the front of the house, "an' thar's goin' ter be hell
ter pay this toime"

"You mean the gray-backs? From the front? What force?"

"Domn'd if Oi know; Oi wasn't seein' out thar--the sergeant told me."

I could not leave Billie down there alone, nor the door open. Whoever
the crazed assassin was, he must still remain somewhere in the cellar,
watching for an opportunity to escape. But I was needed above to direct
the defence. It seemed to me I thought of a thousand things in an
instant,--of my desire to clear up the mystery, of my orders to hold the
house, of Willifred Hardy's danger,--and I had but the one instant in
which to decide. The next I made my choice, at least until I could
discover the exact situation for myself.

"Come," I said soberly.

I closed the door, and faced the trooper.

"You remain here with the lady. Don't leave her for a moment except as I
order. Keep your revolver drawn, and your eyes on that door. Do you
understand?"

"Oi do, sorr."

"She will explain what you are to guard against. I'll be back to you in
a moment, Billie."

I caught one glimpse out through the south windows as I passed the door
of the dining-room--moving troops covered the distance, half concealed
under clouds of smoke, but none were facing toward us. On the floor,
behind the barricades, a dozen of my men were peering out along the
brown carbine barrels, eager and expectant, cartridges piled beside
them on the floor. At the front door I encountered Mahoney, so excited
he could hardly talk.

"What is it?" I questioned swiftly. "An attack in front?"

"It's the big guns, sorr; be gorry, they're goin' to shell us out, an'
whar the hell was them reinforcemints, Oi'd loike to know!"

"So would I. If it's artillery we may as well hoist a white flag. Here,
my lad, let me look."

A glance was sufficient. Just within the gate, barely beyond reach of
our weapons, with a clear stretch of lawn between, was a battery of four
guns, already in position, the caissons at the rear, the cannoneers
pointing the muzzles. Back of these grim dogs was a supporting column of
infantry, leaning on their muskets. There was no doubting what was
meant. Angered by loss, Chambers had dragged these commands out of the
battle to wipe us clean. He was taking no more chances--now he would
blow the house into bits, and bury us in the ruins. What should I do?
What ought I to do? The entire burden of decision was mine. Must I
sacrifice these men who had already fought so desperately? Should I
expose Billie to almost certain death? Surely we had done our full duty;
we had held the house for hours, driving back two fierce assaults. The
fault was not ours, but those laggards out yonder. I would tell Mahoney
and Miles I was going to put out a white flag; that further resistance
was useless. Miles! With remembrance of the name I recalled where the
man was--down below searching for the murderer. I sprang back, passing
Billie and her guard, and flung open the door.

"Miles," I cried into the silent darkness, "we need you up here at
once."

There was just a moment of tense waiting, and then a gruff voice
sounding afar off,

"I can't, sir, I've got him."

CHAPTER XXVI

THE LAST STAND

I had no time to answer, no opportunity to even realize what was meant.
There was a fiendish roar, a crash that shook the house to its very
foundations, sending us staggering back against the walls. I remember
gripping Billie closely, and seeing her white face, even as I warded off
with uplifted arm the falling plaster. The soldier was on his knees,
grovelling with face against the floor. A great jagged hole appeared in
the opposite wall, and I could see daylight through it. My ears roared,
my brain reeled.

"Lie down," I cried, forcing her to the floor. "Both of you lie down!"

"And you--you!"

I caught a glimpse of her eyes staring up at me, her arms uplifted.

"I am going to stop this," I answered, "and you must stay here."

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, hurling us back,
stumbling, fighting, cursing, until they also gained foothold with us on
the bloody floor. The memory of it is but hellish delirium, a
recollection of fiends battling in a strange glare, amid stifling smoke,
their faces distorted with passion, their muscles strained to the
uttermost, their only desire to kill. Uniform, organization, were alike
blotted out; we scarcely recognized friend or foe; shoulder to shoulder,
back to back we fought with whatever weapon came to hand. I heard the
crack of rifles; saw the leaping flames of discharge, the dazzle of
plunging steel, the downward sweep of musket stocks. There were crash of
blows, the thud of falling bodies, cries of agony, and yells of
exultation. I was hurled back across the table by the rush, yet fell
upon my feet. The room seemed filled with dead men; I stepped upon them
as I struggled for the door. There were others with me--who, or how
many, I knew not. They were but grim, battling demons, striking,
gouging, firing. I saw the gleam of knives, the gripping of fingers, the
mad outshooting of fists. I was a part of it, and yet hardly realized
what I was doing. I had lost all consciousness save the desire to
strike. I know I shouted orders into the din, driving my carbine at
every face fronting me; I know others came through the smoke cloud, and
we hurled them back, fairly cleaving a lane through them to the hall
door. I recall stumbling over dead bodies, of having a wounded man
clutch at my legs, of facing that mob with whirling gun stock until the
last fugitive was safely behind me, and then being hurled back against
the wall by sudden rush.

How I got there I cannot tell, but I was in the hall, my clothing a mass
of rags, my body aching from head to foot, and still struggling. About
me were men, my own men--pressed together back to back, meeting as best
they could the tide pouring against them from two sides. Remorselessly
they hurled us back, those behind pushing the front ranks into us. We
fought with fingers, fists, clubbed revolvers, paving the floor with
bodies, yet inch by inch were compelled to give way, our little circle
narrowing, and wedged tighter against the wall. Mahoney had made the
stairs, and fought there like a demon until some one shot him down. I
saw three men lift the great log which had barricaded the door, and hurl
it crashing against the gray mass. But nothing could stop them. I felt
within me the strength of ten men; the carbine stock shattered, I swung
the iron barrel, striking until it bent in my hands. I was dazed by a
blow in the face, blood trickled into my eyes where a bullet had grazed
my forehead, one shoulder smarted as though burned by fire, yet it never
occurred to me to cease fighting. Again and again the men rallied to my
call, devils incarnate now, only to have their formation shattered by
numbers. We went back, back, inch by inch, slipping in blood, falling
over our own dead, until we were pinned against the wall. How many were
on their feet then I shall never know, but I was in the narrow passage
beside the stairs alone. Out of the clangor and confusion, the yells and
oaths, there came a memory of Billie. My God! I had forgotten! and she
was there, crouching in the blackness, not five feet away. The thought
gave me the reckless strength of insanity. My feet were upon a rubbish
heap of plaster, where a shell had shaken the ceiling to the floor. It
gave me vantage, a height from which to strike. Never again will I fight
as I did then. Twice they came, and I beat them back, the iron club
sweeping a death circle. Somewhere out from the murk two men joined me,
one with barking revolver, the other with gleam of steel; together we
blocked the passage. Some one on the stairs above reached over, striking
with his gun, and the man at my right went down. I caught a glimpse of
the other's face--it was Miles. Then, behind us, about us, rose a cheer;
something sent me reeling over against the wall, striking it with my
head, and I lost consciousness.

I doubt if to exceed a minute elapsed before I was able to lift my head
sufficiently to see about me. Across my body sprang a Federal officer,
and behind him pressed a surging mass of blue-clad men. They trod on me
as though I were dead, sweeping their way forward with plunging steel.
Others poured out of the parlor, and fought their way in through the
shattered front door. It was over so quickly as to seem a dream--just a
blue cloud, a cheer, a dozen shots, those heavy feet crunching me, the
flicker of weapons, a shouted order, and then the hall was swept bare of
the living, and we lay there motionless under the clouds of smoke. The
swift reaction left me weak as a child, yet conscious, able to realize
all within range of my vision. My fingers still gripped the carbine
barrel, and dripping blood half blinded me. Between where I lay and the
foot of the stairs were bodies heaped together, dead and motionless most
of them, but with here and there a wounded man struggling to extricate
himself. They were clad in gray and blue, but with clothing so torn, so
blackened by powder, or reddened by blood, as to be almost
indistinguishable. The walls were jabbed and cut, the stair-rail
broken, the chandelier crushed into fragments. Somehow my heart seemed
to rise up into my throat and choke me--we had accomplished it! We had
held the house! Whether for death or life, we had performed our duty.

I could hear the echoing noises without; above the moans and cries,
nearer at hand, and even drowning the deep roar of the guns, sounded the
sturdy Northern cheers. They were driving them, and after the fight,
those same lads would come back, tender as women, and care for us. It
was not so bad within, now the smoke was drifting away, and nothing
really hurt me except my shoulder. It was the body lying half across me
that held me prone, and I struggled vainly to roll it to one side. But I
had no strength, and the effort was vain. The pain made me writhe and
moan, my face beaded with perspiration. A wounded man lifted his arm
from out a tangled heap of dead, and fired a revolver up into the
ceiling; I saw the bullet tear through the plaster, and the hand sink
back nerveless, the fingers dropping the weapon. The sounds of battle
were dying away to the eastward; I could distinguish the volleys of
musketry from the roar of the big guns. I worked my head about, little
by little, until I was able to see the face of the man lying across me.
It was ghastly white, except where blood discolored his cheek, and I
stared without recognition. Then I knew he must be Miles. Oh, yes, I
remembered; he had come up at the very last, he and another man, and one
had been knocked down when the stair-rail broke. I wondered how they
came to be there; who the other man was. I felt sorry for Miles, sorry
for that girl back in Illinois he had told me about. I reached back and
touched his hand--it felt warm still, and, in some manner, I got my
fingers upon his pulse. It beat feebly. Then he was not dead--not dead!
Perhaps if I could get up, get him turned over, it might save his life.
The thought brought me strength. Here was something worthy the effort
--and I made it, gritting my teeth grimly to the pain, and bracing my
hands against the wall. Once I had to stop, faint and sick, everything
about swimming in mist; then I made the supreme effort, and turned over,
my back against the wall, and Miles' ghastly face in my lap. I sat
staring at it, half demented, utterly helpless to do more, my own body
throbbing with a thousand agonies. Some poor devil shrieked, and I
trembled and shook as though lashed by a whip. Then a hand fell softly
on my forehead, and I looked up dizzily, half believing it a dream, into
Billie's eyes. She was upon her knees beside me, her unbound hair
sweeping to the floor, her face as white as the sergeant's.

"And you live?--you live!" she cried, as though doubting her own eyes.
"O God, I thank you!"

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE MYSTERY SOLVED

It was impossible for me to speak. Twice I endeavored, but no sound came
from my parched lips, and I think my eyes must have filled with tears,
her dear face was so blurred and indistinct. She must have understood,
for she drew my head down upon her shoulder, pressing back the matted
hair with one hand.

"My poor boy!" she whispered sobbingly. "My poor boy!"

"And you--you are injured?" I managed to ask with supreme effort.

"No, not physically--but the horror of it; the thought of you in midst
of that awful fighting! Oh, I never knew before what fiends men can
become. This has taught me to hate war," and she hid her face against my
cheek. "I was in that dark corner against the wall; I saw nothing, yet
could not stop my ears. But this sight sickens me. I--I stood there
holding onto the rail staring at all those dead bodies, believing you
to be among them. I thought I should go mad, and then--then I saw you."

Her words--wild, almost incoherent--aroused me to new strength of
purpose. To remain idle there, amid such surroundings, would wreck the
girl's reason.

"It was a desperate struggle, lass," I said, "but there are living men
here as well as dead, and they need help. Draw this man off me, so I can
sit up against the wall. Don't be afraid, dear; that is Miles, and he is
yet alive. I felt his pulse a moment ago, and it was still beating."

She shrank from the grewsome task, her hands trembling, her face white,
yet she drew the heavy body back, resting the head upon the pile of
plaster. The next moment her arms were about me, and I sat up supported
by her shoulder. Even this slight movement caused me to clinch my teeth
in agony, and she cried out,

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