"Now, you curs, now!" he stormed. "You cowardly sc.u.m--perhaps you'll fight 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 at our feet; by sheer force of numbers they swept us backward. It was hand to hand, neither side having time to reload their weapons. The smoke rose, permitting a view of the shambles. There was a tangle of arms, a jumble of faces. They were maddened beasts, desperate, revengeful. Hands clutched at us, gun b.u.t.ts were thrust into our faces, the crush too dense to permit of their being swung overhead. My Dragoons had their sabres out, and stood to it like men, the steel blades dripping as they tasted blood. But killing one only brought a new man to the front. One does not see 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 sergeant shot 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 as I never fought before. Somewhere I had gripped a gun out of dead fingers, and swung it savagely, smashing the stock at the first blow, but retaining the twisted iron. The intensity of excitement seemed to clear my brain. I began to distinguish voices, to notice faces. I heard Grant yell safely in the rear; I heard Jones's roar, "To h.e.l.l with 'em! To h.e.l.l with 'em!" Out of the murk of struggling figures I made out his black beard, the gleam of yellow fangs, and leaped toward him, striking men down until I was able to swing at his head. He went over like a stricken ox under a butcher's axe, knocking aside two men as he fell. It gave me chance 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 I held 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 stairs with 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 for breath. There followed a moment's wait, an instant of hesitancy. I began to see and feel once more. Below us the hall was jammed with men, so closely pressed together as to be almost helpless. Blood streamed from a cut in my forehead, nearly blinding me, but I wiped it away, and took one glance 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 against the wall. Tom and I stood alone, his face blackened by powder, his shirt ripped 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 up there--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 the rail. Below us, growling like wild beasts, but seemingly leaderless, the mob crushed forward to the foot of the stairs. Suddenly I saw Grant, and the sight of him gave me new life.

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

He snarled some answer, what, I know not. There was an empty pistol in my belt, and I flung it at him with all the force of my arm. He dodged, the weapon striking the man behind. With a howl of rage the fellows leaped toward us, bearing Grant on the crest of the wave. The pistols of the Dragoons cracked; three fell, blocking the stairs with their bodies. We had room now in which to swing our iron bars, and we battered them like demons. I lost sight of Grant, the red drip of blood over my eyes making all before me a mist. I only knew enough to strike. Yet fight as we could there was no holding them. We were forced to give way. Guns began to spit fire. 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 tear loose. Tom reeled against the wall, his arm shattered by a blow, and one of the men above came tumbling over me, shot dead. The fall of him cleared the stairs an instant; then the rail broke, and several toppled over with it. I stumbled back almost to the top, sweeping the hair and blood out of my eyes. What--what was the matter? They were running, those fellows down there--struggling, fighting among themselves to get away.

Oaths, yells, cries of sudden fear, made a perfect babel. I could not understand, could not grasp the meaning of the sudden panic. Who were those men surging in through the front door, pouring out through the library? Then a voice roared out:

"Bedad, they're f.a.gin's h.e.l.l-hounds, byes--ter h.e.l.l wid 'em!"

Where had I heard the voice before? I sank down, too weak to stand, my head hanging over the edge of the stairs. Some hand drew me back, but I had no strength left. Only I could think--and the truth came to me.

Camden militia! Camden militia! By all the G.o.ds, Farrell was there! It was the voice of the Irish minute man heard the night we captured Delavan's raiders. Then I closed my eyes, and forgot.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

SEARCHING FOR CLAIRE

I was unconscious, yet not for long. The first touch of water served to revive me, and I became aware that an arm supported my head, although everything was indistinct before my eyes.

"More water, Mike," said a voice close at hand. "Yes, that will do. Where is Farrell? Oh, Dan, this is Major Lawrence."

"One of the Dragoons said he was in command. Hurt badly?"

"No, I think not; but utterly exhausted, and weak from loss of blood.

They put up a game fight."

"Only three on their feet when we got in. Hullo, Lawrence, getting back to the world, lad?"

"Yes," I managed to answer, feeling strength enough to lift myself, and vaguely noticing his features. "Is that you, Farrell?"

"It certainly is," cheerfully. "Duval has his arm about you, and the Camden boys are herding those devils down below. You had some fracas from the way things look. How many men had you?"

I rubbed my head, endeavoring to recollect, staring down into the hall.

It was filled with dead and wounded men, and at the foot of the stairs was a pile of bodies.

"Twelve, altogether," I replied finally. "They--they were too many for us."

"Three to one, or more, I should judge. We got here just in time."

I was up now, looking into their faces, slowly grasping the situation.

"Yes," I said, feeling the necessity of knowing. "How did it happen? What brought you? Washington--"

"All natural enough. Clinton got away night before last with what was left of his army. Left fires burning, and made a forced march to the ships at Sandy Hook. Left everything to save his troops. Washington, realizing the uselessness of holding them longer, sent most of his militia home. About six miles out there on the pike road a half-crazy preacher named Jenks came up with us. He was too badly frightened to tell a straight story, but we got out of him that there was a fight on here, and came over as fast as our horses would travel." His eyes swept the hall. "Five minutes later would have been too late."

The name of Jenks recalled everything to my mind instantly. In spite of Duval I gripped the broken rail and gained my feet, swaying slightly but able to stand. My hand still grasped the twisted rifle barrel, which I used as a cane.

"But Farrell, the girl! Do you know anything about the girl?"

"What girl? Do you mean Claire Mortimer? Is she here?"

"Yes, her father is lying helplessly wounded up stairs, and she must be with him. Eric is somewhere in the hall, either dead or wounded. I saw him fall just as we retreated to the stairs."

Farrell leaned over and called to some one below.

"Not yet, sir," was the answer.

"Well, hunt for him. Now, we'll go up and find Claire. Major, can you climb the rest of the stairs? Help him, Duval."

I experienced no great difficulty, my strength coming back rapidly. There was a wounded Dragoon leaning against the wall, and half-way down the hall lay another body, face down. Without doubt this was the guard f.a.gin had stationed there. Duval paused to help the wounded man, but Farrell and I moved on across the dead guard to the open door beyond. Colonel Mortimer, unable to move, was propped up on his pillow, one hand grasping a pistol. With shaking arm he levelled it at us.

"Who are you? Quick, now!" he quavered. "I've shot one, and I'm good for more."

"You know me, Colonel," and Farrell stepped inside. "I am 'Bull' Farrell; this is Major Lawrence." He looked at us with dull eyes, his hand falling weakly.

"Farrell--Farrell--surely, the blacksmith. What Lawrence? The--the officer Claire knows?"

"Yes; he's a rough-looking object I admit, but there has been a fight down below, sir, in which he had a share. We've just cleaned out Red f.a.gin's gang. We came up here to tell the good news to you and your daughter."

The Colonel's head sank back upon the mussed pillow.