The guerrillas moved forward until about seventy-five paces from the waiting Federals. The order was given them to dismount, and the men not holding the horses moved forward and formed into line.
Lawrence was going to wait until they were over the ridge, but before he gave the order to advance, Lieutenant Stevens walked towards the bushes as if to reconnoiter, and a few more steps would have taken him into the midst of the Federals.
"Fire!" cried Lawrence.
The men sprang to their feet and poured in a crashing volley. Then with a wild cheer, without waiting for orders, they sprang forward, revolvers in hand, and sent a leaden hail into the demoralized mass. The effect was awful; men and horses went down. Never was surprise more complete.
From out the struggling mass came the groans of the dying and the shrieks of the wounded and terror-stricken. Horses reared and plunged, trampling on the dead and living.
Many fled on foot across the fields, others mounting in wild haste spurred their horses. But one thought filled the minds of all—to get away from that awful place.
Lawrence had given orders for the men holding the horses to rush forward at the first volley, so his men were almost as quickly mounted as the guerrillas.
In vain did Jerry and Billy try to stem the tide and rally the men. They were forced to join in the flight.
It now became a matter of single combat. Each trooper selected his victim and pursued him until he surrendered, or was shot down fighting. Those who had fled on foot were first overtaken and then those who had the poorest mounts.
Lawrence passed several, but he gave them no heed. He had but one thought, to find Jerry Alcorn. At last he saw him mounted on his magnificent gray horse. He was shouting to the men to take to the woods—to abandon their horses—to save themselves if possible.