Already had “Light-horse Harry” Lee struck the first blow victoriously in the capture of Coffin and the discomfiture of his force.  Already for several hours the old black oaks had quivered beneath the thunder of artillery more fearfully destructive than that of Heaven itself as Williams hurled back from his field-battery the iron hail with which the enemy strove to overwhelm him.  Already had Howard’s gallant Marylanders, the heroes of the Cowpens, crossed bayonets with the veteran “Irish Buffs” and forced them in confusion from the field.  Majoribanks, with his regulars, grenadiers and infantry, was strongly posted behind a copse too dense to be forced by cavalry, and yet to dislodge him was Colonel Washington’s special duty.  Pointing with his sword toward a narrow passage near the water, he dashed the spurs into the flanks of his gallant mare and called on his men to follow.  There was a momentary pause, for the duty was of the most desperate character, but Captain Peyton snatched the little banner which he had carried so long from the hand of the sergeant who had succeeded to its charge, and raising it above his head spurred after his leader.  As the silken folds fluttered out on the air a ringing cheer went up from the troop, and the whole line, wheeling into sections so as to pass through the narrow gap, dashed forward as one man.  It was a daring attempt, and terribly did they pay for their audacity.  A perfect storm of bullets greeted the brave Virginians, and nearly one-half of them went down, horse and man, beneath its fearful breath ere the other half were in the midst of the enemy’s ranks.  Those were days when a certain simplicity of character made the soldier believe that bayonets and sabres were terrible weapons and meant to do terrible work.  No rewards were then offered for “a dead cavalryman” or for “a bloody bayonet.”  There were cloven skulls at Eutaw as at Crecy, and men were transfixed by each other’s deadly bayonet-thrusts.  As Washington, maddened by the loss of his brave troopers, swung his sharp blade like the flail of death, a shot from the musket of a tall grenadier pierced the lung of his noble bay, and as the falling steed rolled over on her gallant rider the man shortened his musket and buried the sharp steel in the colonel’s body.  A second thrust would have followed with deadly result had not the British major, Majoribanks, seized the arm of the soldier and demanded the surrender of his fallen and bleeding foe.  The tide of battle had receded like some huge swell of ocean, and as the wounded hero struggled to his feet he found himself surrounded by enemies, to contend with whom would have been folly.  Turning his feeble glance for a second toward the retreating remnant of his shattered command, he caught a glimpse through the smoke and dust of his little battle-flag fluttering in the distance, and fast receding toward the point whence Hampton’s bugles were already sounding the rally.  Neither William Washington nor his “Eutaw Flag”