“That fetches it to us,” said Richard, most coolly; drawing his claymore when the Carolinians began to come home like spindrift ahead of the wave of red.  Then he had a steadying word for the men of his company, and a hearty shout and a curse for some of the Georgians who had cut around the flanks of our main to come at their horses in the rear.

But the lad’s assertion that our time was come was only a half prophecy.  The Marylanders, with the Virginians on either flank, stood firm, giving the onrushing wave a shock that went near to breaking it.  But the British were better bayoneted than we, and when it came to the iron our lads must needs give ground sullenly, fighting their way backward as a stubborn assault fights its way inch by inch forward.

“Here come their reserves,” said Dick, pointing with his blade to a second red line forming in the farther vistas of the wood.  “Lord! shall we never get into it?”

’Twas just here that an order sent by Colonel Howard to his first company, directing it to charge by the flank, came near costing us a rout.  The order was misunderstood,—­’twas received at the precise moment of the upcoming of the British reserves,—­and the Marylanders fell back.  In the turning of a leaf our entire fighting front gave way, and what of the Georgians there were left in the mellay made a frantic dash for the horses.

At this crisis John Howard saved the day for us by shrewdly executing the most difficult manoeuver that is ever essayed by a field officer in the heat of battle.  Suffering his men to drift backward until the enemy, sure now of success, were rushing on in disorder to give the coup de grace, he gave the quick command:  “About face!  Fire!  Charge!”

I saw the volley delivered in the faces of the redcoats at pike’s length range; saw the Virginians on the flanks bend to encircle the enemy; saw the rout transfer itself at the roar of the muskets from our side to the recoiling British.  Then I heard Dick’s shouted command.  “Charge them, lads! they’re sabering the Georgians!”

A section of Tarleton’s horse had hewed its way past our flank and was at work on the militiamen scrambling for their mounts.  At it we went, with our brave colonel a horse’s length ahead of the best rider in the troop, pistols banging and sword blades whistling, and that other curious sound you will hear only when the cavalry engages—­the heavy dunch of the horses coming together like huge living missiles hurled from catapults.

’Twas soon over, and the enemy, horse and foot, was flying in hopeless confusion through the open wood.  Our troop led the pursuit; and this brings me to an incident in which thy old chronicler—­figuring in the histories as an unnamed sergeant—­had his share.

It was in the hot part of the chase, and Colonel Tarleton—­a true Briton in this, that he would be first in the charge and last in the retreat—­was galloping with two of his aides in rear of the dragoons.  Since many of us knew the British commander by sight, there was a great clapping-to of spurs to overtake and cut him off.  In this race three horses outdistanced all the others; the great bay ridden by Colonel Washington, a snappy little gray bestridden by the colonel’s boy bugler, and my own mount.