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.
When the crisis came, our colonel had the wind of the boy and me and
was calling on Colonel Tarleton to surrender at discretion. For answer
the three British officers wheeled and fell upon him.
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