McCormack, though his face went white with anger, still thought it prudent to let Barriscale have his fling. The man was excited, terrified, utterly beyond even self-control; he could harm no one but himself.
The calmness, the deliberation, the apparent patience which the commanding officer was exercising in the handling of his force, appeared to give courage to the attacking mob, the front rank of which, forced on from behind, was now within twenty paces of the line of army steel. The jeering was hideous and the yelling terrific. Stones, brickbats, missiles of all kinds went crashing into the silent ranks.
“Advance!”
McCormack gave the command and repeated it. It was instantly obeyed. With measured step, bayonets pointed ahead of them at the height of their chins, firmness in every eye, determination gripping every inch of muscle, the men of Company E moved forward in the face of such a mad and murderous assault as few of them ever cared to witness again.
All but Sergeant Barriscale. He was now in flat revolt. He seemed bereft of his senses, wild with rage or fear or both.
“I’ll not advance!” he yelled. “You boys are going to your death. They’ll murder you. I say again, load and fire!” He turned savagely toward the commanding officer. “Fool!” he cried, “to send your men to slaughter. I defy your orders!”
Then, indeed, the first lieutenant lost grip on his patience. He thrust his pistol into its holster, reached out a right hand nerved with wrath, tore Barriscale’s loaded and unbayoneted rifle from his grasp, and tossed it to Manning sitting on the curb. With both hands he gripped the shoulders of the first sergeant and flung him about, face to the rear.
“Report at the armory,” he cried, “and consider yourself under arrest till I return.”
Then he swung about and followed his men into action.