As the saber fell, he leaped back out of reach—yet barely far enough, for the blade grazed his arm in whizzing past; grazed it, glancingly; shearing a gash in coat and shirt sleeve, and the deflected blade raising a welt on the flesh of the upper arm.
Before the weapon could be swung aloft for a second slash, or its wielder’s arm shortened for a lunge, Dad was at the Confederate’s throat.
Bare-handed, unafraid, he ran in; too close to his foe to allow the use of saber play. The instinct that had prompted him to dodge and then to attack, had also warned him to come to grips before the saber could be put to use.
Had Dad sought to strike or to keep for an instant longer at long range, the sword would have rendered him helpless. As it was at close quarters he rendered the saber a handicap rather than an aid to his enemy.
Dad’s right hand found the captain’s throat. His left shot aloft and seized the wrist that brandished the saber. His lithe old body twisted forward and sideways into the “hiplock.”
The Confederate, meantime tugging furiously to free his own imprisoned sword-arm, struck with all his might, his left fist clenched, at Dad’s face.
Dad ducked and the blow landed full on the tough crown of his head.
Dad saw a choice assortment of stars, but he held his grip, dogged, tense, unyielding in spite of the dizzy nausea that the head blow had caused him.
The Confederate, on the contrary, cried out in sharp pain, and Dad, with a grim thrill of joy, knew why.
The fist, crashing with all its force on Dad’s skull, had met the same fate as has many a pugilist’s in landing a blow in the same inauspicious spot. Two of the Confederate’s fingers were broken by the jarring impact, and his wrist was badly sprained.