Never was a man
nearer his death. In a whiff, Tarleton was foining at him in front
whilst the two aides were rising in their stirrups on either hand to cut
him down.
'Twas the little bugler boy who saved his colonel's life, and not the
unnamed "sergeant," as the histories have it. Having neither a sword nor
the strength to wield one, the boy reined sharp to the left and pistoled
his man as neatly as you please. Seeing his fellow _sabreur_ drop his
weapon and clap his hand to the pistol-wound, my man hesitated just long
enough to let me in with the clumsiest of upcuts to spoil the muscles of
his sword arm. This transferred the duel to the two principals, who were
now at it, hammer and tongs. Both were good swordsmen, but of the twain
our colonel was far the cooler. So when Tarleton made to end it with a
savage thrust in tierce, Washington parried deftly and his point found
his antagonist's sword hand.
At this, Tarleton dropped his blade,--it hangs now over the
chimney-piece in Mr. Washington's town house in Charleston,--gave the
signal for flight, and the three Britons, each with a wound to nurse,
wheeled and galloped on. But in the act Tarleton snatched a pistol from
his holster and let drive at our colonel, wounding him in the knee, so
we did not come off scatheless.
This pistoling of Colonel Washington by the British commander skimmed a
little of the cream from our great and glorious victory. 'Twas no
serious hurt, but wanting it I make no doubt we should have ridden down
the flying dragoons, adding them, and their doughty colonel to boot, to
the five-hundred-odd prisoners we took.
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