If the cheer that had greeted McCormack’s ultimatum to the leader of the mob had been whole-souled and exuberant, the yell that came now from the throats of half a hundred khaki-clad enthusiasts was vociferous and overwhelming. At last they had a soldier and a patriot for a leader, and they wanted the world to know it.
Barriscale alone was displeased and dissatisfied.
“It was a reckless thing to do,” he shouted. “Those fellows over there will see red now. Bayonets are no use. We’ve got to shoot into ’em or they’ll murder us. Look at ’em!”
The rioters presented, indeed, a terrifying spectacle. Stunned, for a moment, by the swift retribution that had fallen on their leader, their amazement now gave way to a frenzy of rage. Incited to still greater fury by Kranich who had precipitately fled into the midst of his followers when he saw his companion fall, the men of the invading host were clamoring for revenge. The red flag, temporarily lowered, was again shaken aloft. Men with faces distorted by wrath and a desire for vengeance were shrieking their anger, flourishing their clubs, brandishing knives, daggers, pistols, gathering from the street missiles of any and every kind with which to charge upon their enemy. They could not conceive that sixty Guardsmen in khaki, with rifles and bayonets, could check the murderous onslaught of five hundred desperate and daring men.
Already stones and brickbats were hurtling through the air, and falling in the midst of the troops. A stone struck Manning’s head, cut through his hat, and sent him staggering and bleeding to the curb.
“Charge bayonet!”
McCormack’s command rang out clear and distinct above the din and tumult of the riot. As it went down the line the rifle of every man was thrown to the front, his left hand supporting the barrel, his right hand grasping the stock. The points of sixty bayonets, four paces apart, ranged in the sweeping arc of a circle, converged in the direction of the howling and advancing mob. Barriscale alone was in revolt.
“It’s wild!” he shouted. “We’ve got to give ’em bullets, not bayonets! This is no pink tea! This is war! I say, load your guns, men, load! load!”
Obeying his own command, he pulled back the bolt of his piece, withdrew a clip from his cartridge belt, pushed it with trembling and hurried fingers into the slot of his rifle, forced the cartridges into the magazine, thrust the bolt home, and then looked around in amazement to see that no one else had followed his lead.