CHAPTER XXIX
WE DRIVE THEM
IT WAS silent enough within—not a movement, not a sound. I could perceive dimly the motionless figures clustered about the windows in breathless expectancy, but all was ready, and not even a whispered order was being exchanged. Outside there was scarcely any more noise audible—the occasional pawing of a horse, a distant thud of feet where some infantrymen were being hurried into position, and now and then an indistinct voice. The caution shown, the force displayed about the church, surprised me. Surely no such effort would be made merely because of a vague suspicion that a man and girl might be hidden within. The leaders all knew that I was not likely to surrender without a fight, and that I was armed, yet this could hardly account for such preparation.
Could it be they really had a faint glimmer of the truth? that they realized the possibility of a Confederate raiding party in the neighborhood? They had shot Harwood's picket, and knew him to be a southern cavalryman from the uniform he wore. This might account for the display of force with which they invested the church before demanding admission. No doubt the heavy log walls looked formidable, and mysterious in the moonlight. But, if they really suspected a garrison within, why should their line be thus extended, within easy musket shot of the windows? The conclusion I arrived at was, that Fox made this open display of force in the hope of avoiding bloodshed. He desired to capture instead of kill, and wished above all else to protect Noreen from danger. If we were alone within the church, escape was clearly impossible, and the probability strong that no resistance would be attempted.
The silence, the long wait, got upon my nerves. I could see little, and the few sounds reaching my ears conveyed no information of value. What were those fellows doing? What could cause their delay? The soldier behind me was humming softly; a foot scraped on the floor to the right; I caught the soft swish of Noreen's skirt as she changed position; the moonbeams glimmered on a lifted rifle-barrel; there was all about a suppressed sound of breathing. Good Lord! would they never move! What could they possibly be doing out there?
A half dozen blows rang sharp on the wood of the outer door. Not a sound answered from within, although I could feel the men straighten up, and sense the sharp intake of breath. Again the blows crashed, as if struck by the butt of a musket.
"Open up in there!" roared a voice, so muffled as to have no familiar sound, "or we'll break down the door. Come, Mister Spy; we've got you trapped."
"Sergeant Wyatt, the lieutenant wants yer," the whispered words swept down the line of waiting men, and I hurried forward. Harwood was in the dark vestibule close beside the big door.
"That you, Wyatt?" he asked softly, uncertain as to my identity. "They are after you, and have no idea anyone else is here. You answer, and warn them what they're up against. I don't mind a fight, but am hardly ready to commit murder."
"Do you hear me in there, Wyatt?" the gruff voice without called. "This is your last chance; come, don't be a fool. We know you are there, and there couldn't a rat get out, and not be seen."
"Who are you?" I asked. "I want to know who I am dealing with first."
"I am Major Moran, Twenty-first Ohio Infantry."
"Is Captain Fox there?"
"Yes—here Fox; the fellow wants to talk with you."
There was a sound of movement without, the murmur of a word or two spoken in subdued tones; then Fox's voice raised to carry through the intervening wood.
"Sorry this happens to be my job, Wyatt," he said. "I am not in command, and therefore can offer no conditions of surrender. But for Miss Harwood's sake I hope you will not attempt to fight; we've got a total force out here of over two hundred men."
"So I see," I answered coolly, "including Cowan, and my old friend the lieutenant. Quite a compliment to send half a regiment after one man."
"Our having such a force is largely accident," he responded somewhat stiffly. "But that is neither here nor there; your escape is impossible."
"I am not considering escape," and I spoke loud enough to be heard clearly. "This is going to be a fight, Captain Fox—a real fight."
"A fight! What, you alone?"
"Oh, no; there are men enough in this church to make it quite interesting. That is why I warn you—we are soldiers, not murderers."
"What! You think that bluff will work?"
"Captain Fox," broke in Harwood bluntly, his voice nervously sharp. "I command Troop 'C,' Third Kentucky Cavalry. This is no bluff, sir. I give you fifteen minutes to withdraw your men; at the expiration of that time we open fire."
The surprise, the shock, of this unexpected development and threat was plainly evident. I heard Fox step back from the door, and speak earnestly to some one; Moran swore savagely.
"What force have you?" he roared, the insane question causing Harwood to laugh outright.
"Come, and find out," he answered mockingly. "It is no trouble to show goods. Better go back to the other end now, Sergeant," he added in lower voice, and gripped my hand. "The ball is about to open. Where is my lady cousin?"
"I put her on guard over the prisoner. She will be out of range there, and have something to do."
"And gives you another fighting man—I see. Queer duck, that preacher—a bit of a knave to my notion, and one of the finest liars I have ever heard; he'll bear watching. Ah! our friend the major has come to his senses—look yonder! They are moving back out of range."
"Ay! and concentrating a heavier body of men this way."
"Of course; the first assault will be from the front. Tell Wharton to spare me two or three more men, and send a couple from your end. They may make a rush from all directions, but the real fight will be here; they are going to try us out, that is certain."
"You can trust Fox for that; he is a fighting man, whatever may be the inclination of the major—and Cowan is a wolf. Listen! that is his voice now."
I walked back to my station, speaking to both Wharton and O'Hare as I passed. The men we detached hurried to the front, and I took the vacant place of one of them at the open window, back of the pulpit. The line of men threatening this end of the building had been drawn aside, out of direct rifle range, and seemed to be grouped opposite each corner, and were so closely bunched together as to make any estimate of their numbers impossible. They were only shapeless shadows, with moonlight gleaming from their weapons; and an occasional voice breaking the ominous silence. What their purpose might be in assuming such formation could not be determined; were they merely guarding against an effort on our part to break away? or did they contemplate an assault in conjunction with the larger force at the front of the church? No further movement, or word, gave me any clue, but the manifest lack of ordinary military formation caused me to suspect that these fellows were Cowan's guerrillas, and that the reinforcement of cavalrymen had been sent elsewhere. Once a man passed between the two bodies, bending low as he ran.
There remained nothing to do but wait their action, ready for whatever might occur. I passed along the wall from man to man, assuring myself each was at his station, with loaded weapon, and well filled cartridge belt.
"The fight will begin in front," I whispered, unable to distinguish faces, "and no firing here until I give the word."
In the darker corner where the prisoner sat motionless against the log wall, my eyes could distinguish nothing.
"Noreen."
"Yes," and she stood up. "Couldn't you see me?"
"Not the faintest shadow. Your prisoner is quiet?"
"He hasn't even spoken, and as his hands and feet are bound, he is very easily guarded. You think they will attack?"
"Beyond question; they are getting ready now, and I can only remain here a moment. I—I wanted to thank you for the choice you made."
"You mean my coming with you? You are glad I did?"
"Yes, very glad," I said earnestly, "for you are just as safe here, and—and I would rather have you near me. This may prove a desperate struggle; we are terribly outnumbered—and—and, well you know you—you trusted yourself to me—you are under my protection."
There was no answer; perhaps I had said too much. I stood waiting, other words burning on my tongue. God, I loved her—but I could not understand; could not venture to break the mystery of that silence. Suddenly a volley roared out, startling in the stillness, the simultaneous crash of fifty muskets, the speeding bullets thudding into wood. I heard one cry of agony—a shout of command—the sharp bark of carbines—then a grim, threatening yelp of voices. One leap brought me to the window, with gun-barrel thrust forward across the sill. The two black shadows were disintegrating, breaking up, the units spreading out like an opening fan, in headlong rush toward the door at the south corner. There was no firing, no flash of powder, just that wild yelping, as though a pack of wolves smelt blood, and that reckless dash across the moonlit open. I saw figures, not faces, a gleaming of poised weapons, a huddle of leaping bodies.
"Fire!" I roared, my voice rising above the hideous din. "Give it to them!" and pulled trigger.
I have no clear knowledge of what followed—it was all so quickly over with; a mere mad moment crowded with vague glimpses, vanishing and changing in the lurid light of the guns. The whole interior of the church blazed and echoed, the smoke choking us with its fumes, the noise stunning our ears. I heard the chug of bullets flattening against the logs, smothered oaths, the crash of an overturned bench, a scream as shrill as a woman's that made my heart leap, and Harwood's voice calling out the same word again and again. But although I heard all this, I hardly knew it, my whole thought rivetted on those black figures in front of me—those reckless devils we had to kill, or drive back. And we did it! From every window, from every hastily smashed pane beside the door, we poured our fire—the carbines spitting into the dark, their sharp barking incessant. Barrels grew hot, the smoke drove back choking into our faces, but we pulled triggers, aiming as best we could in the moon-gleam, now changed to a red mist. They stopped; hung for a moment motionless, the ground dotted with the dead; then tried again. There was a roar of musketry, the crack of rifles; bullets chugged into the logs, and came crashing through the windows. Glass showered upon us, and the man next me went over like a log; someone struck me across the face with a bloody hand, and a shot splintered the stock of my gun, numbing my arm to the shoulder. I gripped another weapon out of the stiffening fingers of the man on the floor, firing again blindly into the smoke cloud. For an instant I could see nothing but that white vapor tinged with red and yellow flame; then some breath of air swept it aside, and the attackers were drifting back, running and stumbling. There were motionless bodies on the ground—a half dozen in a heap before the door; with here and there a figure crawling in painful effort at escape.
"Stop firing!" I cried, "they've had enough. Pass the word to those men at the door."
The fight at the front held longer, yet it was scarcely five minutes when the last gun cracked, and a strange silence took the place of that hideous uproar. For an instant not even a cry from the wounded broke the stillness, the men leaning out of the windows watching the disorganized retreat. Then someone gave an exultant yell, and voice after voice caught it up, the old church echoing to the wild battle-cry of the South.
"Steady men, steady!" shouted Harwood from the door of the vestibule, his voice cleaving the din like the blade of a knife. "This is only the first act. Load!"