84. LXXXIV.
SURROUNDED.
Not a moment was to be lost, if we intended to attempt to escape.
The Federal cavalry-men had seized upon our horses, and
were now rushing upon the house, in pursuit of the Moor.
I never saw Mordaunt look more cool; but, when he recognized
Fenwick, a livid light suddenly glared in his eyes, and his
teeth clinched.
As Achmed entered, he advanced two steps and heavily
barred the door. Then turning to Mrs. Fitzhugh, he said:
“We are going to defend the house, madam. Will you retire
to the upper rooms with the young ladies?”
The old lady hastened to obey, followed by Miss Henrietta,
who trembled from head to foot.
Violet Grafton did not stir. The color had faded from her
cheeks, but her eyes were brave and proud.
“Let me stay.” she said, in a voice as firm and sweet as it had
been an hour before. “I am not afraid.”
Mordaunt took her hand and led her, without speaking, to the
staircase in one corner of the apartment.
Her head fell, a burning color mounted to her cheeks, and
she disappeared just as the Federal soldiers threw themselves
against the door.
“Now, Surry,” said Mordaunt, with a sort of devil in his eyes,
“I don't know what you are going to do, but I am not going to
run from that reptile. I mean to defend this house to the last.”
“You can count on me.”
“Good—I thought as much, comrade. Achmed is armed,
and as brave as steel. Is your pistol loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Then we have some fifteen shots. It's odds if we don't
hurt somebody—then the sabre!”
While he spoke, Mordaunt, assisted by Achmed, dragged a
heavy table against the door, and I secured the door in rear in
the same manner.
“Open!” cried a threatening voice, accompanied by the heavy
blow of a sabre-hilt; “open! you are my prisoners!”
“Come and take us!” was Mordaunt's reply as he cocked his
pistol.
“Open, or you are dead?”
“Bah!—we are not children!”
“Who are you?”
“Gentlemen!”
“Officers?”
“What matters it? We are men.”
“In ten minutes you will be dead!”
“It will take longer than that.”
The reply was a pistol-shot, which pierced the door and struck
the opposite wall.
Directing Achmed to reserve his fire, Mordaunt reached the
window, took dead aim, and fired. A groan followed, and the
heavy sound of a body falling.
“One!” he said, quickly securing the shutters. With another
movement he extinguished the only light in the apartment.
He had scarcely done so when a whole volley of bullets passed
through the shutters; and then vigorous hands were heard endeavoring
to tear them open.
I fired at three paces from the window, and heard a howl
from without.
“Two!” was Mordaunt's cool comment. “Keep against the
wall, Surry!”
The advice was good. A second volley came, tearing both
through doors and windows, from front and rear.
“Open!” howled the voice we had heard before; “open! infernal
guerrillas that you are! Open, or in ten minutes I will
roast you alive!”
Mordaunt's cool reply was:
“We have the honor to call your attention to the fact that we
are not guerrillas.”
“What are you, then?”
“I have already informed you. We are gentlemen.”
“What is your design?”
“To defend this house, and kill as many of your command as
possible.”
“Fire!” was the answer in a voice of rage from without.
And a volley crashed into the room.
“Fire again!—tear down the door!”
Another came; then heavy shoulders struck against the door.
“Reserve your fire—it misses, or only wounds,” said Mordaunt,
“you will soon need it.”
Suddenly we heard the voice of Fenwick. He spoke in a low
tone, but every syllable reached us.
“Captain,” he said, “I know this house well, and I know the
man who is defending it. He will stop at nothing, and he has
barred the door, so that it cannot be opened. Attack from
above, and you will have better luck.”
Mordaunt uttered a low growl, and raised his pistol—but lowered
it again.
“It is very easy to say attack from above,” came in response
to Fenwick from without; “but how the devil am I to do it?”
“There is a ladder yonder—and a window at the side of the
house. Nothing is easier.”
“Will you mount?”
There was a moment's silence, interrupted by a sareastic
laugh.
“That was not the bargain,” replied Fenwick, coolly; “send
one of the men.”
“A man there, to mount a ladder,” said the captain.
Mordaunt looked at me and laughed.
“That's a small affair,” he said; “it will save ammunition to
send Achmed with his knife. The poor boy is dying to take
part.”
In fact, the young Moor had remained erect, silent, and motionless,
but his sparkling black eyes betrayed his desire to engage
in the struggle.
The sound of a ladder dragged along the ground was now
heard—then the noise it made in striking against the wall
above.
Mordaunt turned to the young man, and said a few words to
him in Arabic, pointing, as he did so, to a long, slender poniard
in Achmed's breast. The boy's face glowed; he drew the long,
bright blade, and disappeared at one bound up the staircase,
moving as noiselessly as a tiger.
“Ready!” came from without; and then was heard the noise
of heavy boots ascending the ladder, accompanied by the clatter
of a sabre against the rounds.
“Now for it!” shouted the voice of the Federal captain.
“You are at the window! Burst it in!”
The steps continued to ascend; the shutters were evidently
being torn open; when, all at once, a frightful cry resounded
above, and a heavy body was heard falling along the ladder, and
striking violently against the ground. The ladder was then
heard to crash down—and the next instant Achmed reappeared,
wiping his poniard, which was streaming with blood.
With a few words in Arabic, he resumed his former place.
As he did so, a volley of oaths resounded without, and one of
the men said:
“He's dead, Captain—stabbed through the heart.”
“Three!” said Mordaunt, laughing.
He had scarcely spoken when a furious rush was made on the
front door, amid a wild outburst of yells and imprecations.
“They will break it down, Surry,” said Mordaunt, coolly.
“So it appears—and then, my dear friend, the affair will be
pretty well decided.”
“One thing will be left, Surry.”
“What's that?”
“To die game.”
As he uttered the words, the door was burst open, and the
assailants crowded the opening—their captain at the head.
For a moment the heavy table checked them—and behind this
table stood Mordaunt, pistol in hand, creet and threatening as a
destroying angel.
“Surrender!” howled the Federal captain, raising his pistol as
he spoke.
Mordaunt did not reply. His arm was extended, as straight
as an arrow, across the table—he fired, with the muzzle of his
pistol almost touching his adversary's breast—and the Federal
captain fell forward, shot through the heart.
For a single instant the assailants recoiled, and I fired at an
officer behind, but missed him. The Moor had already emptied
all his barrels, and had drawn his poniard.
Suddenly the voice of Fenwick was heard exclaiming:
“Kill the tall man!—a thousand dollars to the man who kills
him!”
Mordaunt fired his sole remaining barrel, and I knew from his
hoarse exclamation that he had not struck Fenwick.
“Now for the sabre!” he exclaimed, as the table was hurled
back, and a dozen men rushed on him.
The overthrown table formed a sort of barricade, and across
this now took place a desperate struggle. The men behind were
afraid to fire, for fear of wounding their companions; and those
in front required all their skill to parry the rapid and mortal
blows of Mordaunt, and the deadly strokes of Achmed's poniard.
To “die game” seemed now all that was left for us. But
even at that moment, when certain death seemed staring us in
the face, I could not suppress a thrill of admiration for the defiant
courage of my companion. He fought, thus at bay, amid his
crowding adversaries, with the skill and coolness of a swordsman
fencing for amusement—and at every stroke with the edge, or
lunge with the point, his weapon drew blood.
But we were rapidly forced back; shots fired over the heads
of the assailants buried themselves in the wall behind; and,
suddenly, the table was broken down and trodden under foot.
At the same moment Mordaunt staggered.
`You are struck!” I exclaimed.
“No—my foot slipped—in the blood!”
And, clearing a circle with a single whirl of his sabre, he
placed his hand against the wall—in his fiery eyes the wrath of
a tiger at bay—ready to die, but not to yield.
At his side was Achmed, calm yet fiery; and this was the
condition of affairs when, all at once, amid the clash of the
sabres, shots were heard without, and then the rapid sound of
hoofs.
“Charge! and cut down every man!” shouted a voice which
seemed familiar; and in an instant the Federal cavalry were
charged by a detachment of gray-coats.
In front rode Harry Saltoun, and at his side—Violet Grafton!
She had escaped from the house during the struggle—hastened
on foot to the nearest picket—and led the party back to the
house, fearlessly riding upon the saddle of a trooper!
In an instant the detachment led by Harry Saltoun were in
collision with the Federal soldiers, cutting right and left The
blue-coats ran to their horses, and hastily mounted—but, before
the whole could do so, a number were shot down or sabred.
Mordaunt rushed through the doorway and mounted his recaptured
horse.
“Follow me!” rang out in his sonorous voice.
And, placing himself at the head of the detachment, he charged
the retreating enemy, cutting down every man he came opposite.
