“Attention, my men! The rendezvous has been surprised by the enemy! The Free Sword seems hard beset! We must free him! To the rescue, then!”
A shout from the men responded to this speech.
“Attention! Forward! March!”
The guerrillas galloped as gayly onwards towards the field of blood “as to a festival.”
As they approached the scene of action the evidences of a fearful engagement encircled them.
Ascending the hill, they entered into a dense atmosphere of black and sulphurous smoke and dust through which sabres glanced and firearms blazed, and horses and riders loomed and vanished, and from which arose the confused sounds of the shouts of men, the neighs of steeds, the clash of steel, the report of musketry, and the shrieks and groans of the wounded and the dying.
Over fallen steeds and writhing men—through flashing sabre strokes and whistling rifle shots—through smoke and dust—through blood and fire—the guerrillas dashed, striking here and there—striking everywhere where the blue coat of a Union soldier could be seen in the chaos.
It was a general melee, more terrible in its effects than any pitched battle could have been. It was a mutual massacre, in which no quarter was asked or given. Such was the engagement at —— Hill, long to be remembered in the bloody annals of the Valley.
Neither Monck nor any of his officers or men were to be seen anywhere on the field. It seemed evident that his forces had not joined those of Colonel Corsoni, whose command had engaged the Federals alone.
In the thickest carnage might be seen the form of the Free Sword, an inspired form—a very Demon of Destruction—dealing death-blows right and left—striking everywhere, and always with fatal effects; struck at from every quarter, but always in vain! He seemed to bear a charmed life, and to wield an invincible weapon.