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
