The woods in front were veiled in smoke. The rattle of small arms was incessant. The screech of bullets filled the air. Here and there a man fell forward, clutching at his horse’s neck. Here and there one swayed and crashed to the ground. Over all the sunlight pulsed in bands of fire.
Coolly James’s voice arose. “Hold your fire till you can see the whites of their eyes,” he ordered. “Then give ’em h—l.” He waved his sword. “Forward! Gallop!” he cried.
The pace quickened. The ground was becoming more open and the enemy’s bullets were coming faster. But the Americans did not fire. They could not see the foe in the tangled thicket ahead of them, and they had no shots to waste.
“Form for attack! By fours! Right front into line! March!”
The columns broke up, changing, as if by magic, into a long double line of horsemen, galloping toward the smoking woods.
“Forward! Remember the Raisin! Charge!”
The trumpets sounded and from the crowding horsemen rose a yell. “Remember the Raisin;” loud and thrilling the cry echoed back from the woods. The horses sprang forward, furious with the battle clangor.
Still the Americans did not fire. Their first weapon was the running horse; against the enemy’s lines they hurled him. Later they would use their muskets and the long pistols that hung at their belts.
At the front rode Johnson. Neck and neck with him rode Jack, heading for the very center of the British line. Not for all the devils in h—l would he have fallen back an inch.
For a moment blinding smoke filled his eyes. Right and left ran the red flash of the British rifles. Then he was among the trees, plunging through a line of redcoated men, who reeled and ran, throwing down their guns as they went. “Quarter! Quarter!” The cry rang loud above the crash of falling arms.