A volley as steady as that of the enemy flamed along the front of the company. Al was conscious of a vague surprise that in such chaos the men could maintain a discipline so machine-like. But the enemy's charging line did not appear even to waver.
"Load! Fire at will! Commence firing!" howled the officer, jumping into the air to look over the heads of his men at the enemy beyond the creek. "Fast, boys! Fer Gawd's sake, put it into 'em fast!"
The muskets began to rattle in a disjointed way, Al's among the rest, while Wallace's revolver popped viciously. Everything in front was veiled in thin white vapors, and the men in the charging line resembled shadows, dancing upon a curtain. But the Confederates, like a stampede of buffalo, held to their headlong course. Shortly the officer bawled, in a voice almost tearful,
"No use, boys! They're flankin' us. They're across the creek, up and down. Come back; back to the buildings!"
Most soldiers fear being flanked more than death itself in front. The men cast terrified glances toward the enemy, streaming past beyond their wings, and broke like sheep for the rear, where the outlying houses of the town looked down a gentle slope toward them. They were not panic-stricken, but, as in one man, the instinct awoke in them to cover their flanks and save themselves from the dreaded attack in rear. With the enemy hard behind them and filling the air with exultant yells, they swarmed into the buildings, like bees into their hives, smashing through doors and windows in their haste and from these new havens of refuge they resumed their interrupted fire desperately.
Al and Wallace, with five or six soldiers, made for a brick residence standing back in a shady garden. By main force they tore a pair of blinds from a shuttered window, crushed in the glass and sash with flailing musket butts, and leaped through, landing upon the plush carpet of a handsome parlor. The men swept up a polished mahogany table and three or four rosewood chairs and jammed them into the vacant window, then opened fire feverishly upon the enemy, who were already tearing down the fence pickets in front of the house or leaping over them. The Confederate line of battle had dissolved into groups during the impetuous pursuit and the men, so dauntless in their advance across the open fields, looked doubtfully at the yawning windows and doors of the houses, each spitting fire, upon which they had now come. They discharged a patter of harmless shots, then began to seek cover behind trees, fences, or stones.
There was a sergeant among the men with Al and Wallace. He peered through the rosewood chair-legs cluttered in the window, and cried,
"They're takin' cover, boys. We can hold 'em now. Here, Jones, Throckmorton, Schmidt,—get upstairs. Shoot down at 'em;—drive 'em back."
Al raised his voice. "This is the house of Doctor Falkner," he said. "I know him well; he is a Union man. Treat the house as well as you can, boys." To Wallace he added, "My father sold him all this furniture and these carpets."