The soldiers on the ground floor and upon the main stairway were now exposed to a raking fire from two sides and the air-ships were not slow to follow up their advantage. They hurled their explosive missiles into the men massed upon the stairway and with rifle fire picked off individual soldiers at windows and upon the lower floor. The soldiers returned the fire with spirit, sending volley after volley at the air-ships as they appeared through the great, yawning gaps in the walls. This fire seemed, however, utterly ineffectual against the strong sides of the air-ships and the protecting shields thrown up around them. Comrades were falling fast on every side; the air was filled with the groans and the cries of the wounded and the dying; the men were growing disheartened. Then the voice of Captain Bingham rang out above the tumult:
“Guards, stand fast and die like men!”
A hoarse cheer, despairing yet valiant—the final testimony to the native valor of the American soldier—came from the men in response to their leader’s words. Yes, they would die like men! And carbines were replenished with fresh determination, and fresh volleys were poured in upon the enemy.
But it was all of no avail. Their efforts, directed against an enemy they could not reach, were futile. Down went Lieutenant Dobson, the last of the sub-alterns yet unscathed, and still the missiles continued to rain upon the devoted and rapidly diminishing band.
The terrible devastation going on was not unknown to those gathered in the shelter of the drawing-rooms, and the same servant who had come to him before, now crept forth to Captain Bingham’s side. In his hand he carried a large pocket-handkerchief of white silk, attached to the end of a stick. This he extended to Captain Bingham.
“His Majesty directs you to surrender,” he stammered, his teeth chattering with the horror of the sights about him.
Captain Bingham turned upon him with the blazing eyes of a madman. “You lie, you scoundrel!” he shouted. “You have misunderstood His Majesty’s orders!” And with the flat of his sword he struck the emblem of surrender from the man’s hand, and with the point of his sword at the man’s throat he drove him back to the shelter of the drawing-rooms.
And now the stairway, broken and demolished in many places, was slippery with blood and choked with the bodies of the fallen. The rain of missiles had ceased and had been succeeded by a sharp rifle fire which rapidly picked off the few remaining survivors. Down went the color sergeant at Captain Bingham’s side. The Captain stood at the head of the stairway, still guarding the approach to the drawing-rooms. He had been struck on the left side of the head by a flying fragment of some kind, and from the wound the blood trickled down his pale face and over his uniform. He was the last man left.
The rifle fire from the air-ships closed entirely, and through the demolished front there surged a mass of men—men from the mobiles. They were armed with rifles and upon their left shoulders they bore a white star. A golden star of peculiar formation glittered upon the shoulder of their leader, and he carried a sword.
“Surrender!” shouted this leader, advancing up the stairway, sword in hand, followed by his men.