Already the gray mass were upon the veranda, battering in the door, clambering through the windows, dashing recklessly at every hole cleft by the plunging shells.

Rifles flared in our faces; steel flashed, as blade or bayonet caught the glare; clubbed muskets fell in sweep of death; and men, maddened by the fierce passion of war, pushed and hacked their way against our feeble defence, hurling us back, stumbling, fighting, cursing, until they also gained foothold with us on the bloody floor.

The memory of it is but hellish delirium, a recollection of fiends battling in a strange glare, amid stifling smoke, their faces distorted with passion, their muscles strained to the uttermost, their only desire to kill.

Uniform, organization, were alike blotted out; we scarcely recognized friend or foe; shoulder to shoulder, back to back we fought with whatever weapon came to hand.

I heard the crack of rifles; saw the leaping flames of discharge, the dazzle of plunging steel, the downward sweep of musket stocks.