75. LXXV.
THE NIGHT ATTACK.
I STRETCHED myself beside Stuart, and was soon asleep. We
were destined to have a somewhat disagreeable waking.
Half an hour before daylight, we suddenly heard heavy firing
near at hand, and started up.
The firing approached with rapidity; the sound of horses at a
gallop was heard; and, at the next moment, the picket, in the
direction of the river, appeared, retreating in hot haste.
“Look out!” they cried, “the enemy are on you!”
Stuart sprang to the saddle, and, in a moment, his bugle was
heard sounding “Boots and Saddles”—then, “To Horse.”
He had hardly formed line when the enemy's cavalry came
upon him. They had rapidly spurred through the shallow ford,
driven in the picket, and, proceeding apparently upon some
information, were now charging straight upon Stuart.
“Where is the prisoner I brought last night!” I suddenly exclaimed.
“Escaped, Major,” replied a courier.
I darted to Stuart.
“Look out, General! Fenwick has escaped to the enemy, and,
no doubt, given full information of your strength and position.”
“I'll fight them, if they are a corps!” exclaimed the General,
hotly. “Form platoons!”
His sonorous voice was heard above the crack of the carbines.
“Draw sabres!—charge!”
And, placing himself in front, Stuart led the charge in person,
his sabre gleaming in the moonlight.
Never shall I forget that scene. It was one of the wildest and
most romantic I ever witnessed. At least a division of Federal
cavalry had attacked Fitz Lee's small brigade, and, for half an
hour, nothing was seen but a fierce and determined struggle
between dusky shadows—nothing heard but yells, the sharp ring
of the carbine, and the clash of the sabre.
It was, altogether, a most mixed-up affair, and I can give no
better description of it than by saying that the men seemed to
fight each for himself, and without seeing their opponents.
I tried to keep with Stuart—lost him—and found myself in
the midst of a hundred blue-coats.
A sabre-blow cut my hat from my head—then my horse was
shot, and I felt him stagger. The next moment he fell, carrying
me with him, and catching my leg under him.
I was making violent efforts to disengage myself, when a
squadron of Stuart's, with the General at their head, charged
over me—the hoofs of the horses brushing my very face.
The squadron charged with the sabre, forcing the enemy back
and I struggled to my feet.
A dozen riderless horses were galloping to and fro, mad with
terror, and I caught one, and mounted. I had scarcely done so,
when Stuart's line was seen falling back, under a heavy fire, and
pressed closely by a heavy force, with drawn sabres.
The crisis had come. Day showed the enemy the small force
of Stuart, and they were pressing him close.
I was by him, and saw the man “under pressure.” His face
burned like fire, his eyes blazed, and he looked dangerous. “Do
or die” was in every look, and, sword in hand, he fought among
the men.
Reaching a good position, he faced about and met them, sabre
to sabre. The fight began to rage more furiously than before,
and the whole field was filled with the clash of sabres and the
ring of pistols and carbines.
In five minutes Stuart would have been forced back and compelled
to retire from the field, when suddenly I heard a ringing
shout beyond the hill on the left—then a long line of sabres glittered
on the crest. A fresh regiment, on spirited horses, burst
like a torrent upon the enemy's flank, and in front of them I
recognized Mordaunt.
The charge of Mordaunt's column completely reversed the
whole aspect of the field. The Federal cavalry recoiled, wavered,
and then fell back. Fitz Lee advanced with a cheer in
front; Mordaunt closed in with the sabre; and in a marvellously
brief space the Federal cavalry were driven to the river.
Suddenly a white cloud, tipped with fire, rose from the opposite
bank, and a shell tore through the ranks, overthrowing men
and horses. Stuart rode up to Mordaunt, who was advancing
with his column.
“Colonel,” said Stuart, “do you think you can take that battery?”
Mordaunt laughed, and wiped his bloody sabre on the mane of
his superb black horse.
“I can try, General,” was his reply, and his face was resplendent.
His eyes sparkled—his white teeth appeared under his
black mustache: I had never before seen Mordaunt look happy.
Three bounds of his horse took him to the head of his column,
upon which two guns were now pouring a heavy fire.
“Forward!” he cried, with a whirl of his sabre. “Follow
me!”
And, darting at a gallop down the steep descent, at the head
of his column, Mordaunt fell like a thunderbolt upon the rear of
the enemy, now retreating rapidly across the ford.
The column did not pause. The platoons splashed into the
river, spurred through, and were then seen to mount the opposite
slope, charging straight into the muzzles of the artillery,
which hurled in their faces a hurricane of canister.
Still the column advanced at a headlong gallop, though wide
gaps were visible in the ranks, torn and bleeding from the storm
sweeping through them—and still the flash of Mordaunt's sabre
was distinguished in front, his powerful black horse mounting
the slope with long leaps, which cleared rocks, ravines, and every
thing.
The Federal sharpshooters greeted him with a rapid and destructive
fire, but were charged, ridden over, and cut down with
the sabre. Then a wild cheer arose above the roar of the guns
—the Southern column disappeared in the cloud of smoke—
the next moment they were seen sabring the cannoneers at the
guns, which had been hastily limbered up to be carried off.
It was too late. Mordaunt was in possession of the hill: he
was seen to close with the Federal cavalry, in a desperate hand-to-hand
conflict—and Stuart, who had risen in his stirrups and
shouted as he witnessed the charge, placed himself at the head
of the main body, and went at headlong speed to his support.
The ford was passed—Fitz Lee led his column straight up
the hill on Mordaunt's left, and in an instant the enemy were
furiously attacked in flank. Under this double assault they wavered—the
lines broke, and then gave way, followed by the
Southerners with triumphant cheers.
The crest was won, and the enemy completely routed.
