By the time the sun was up, the whole force was scattered round the fires, busily engaged in cooking breakfast, and a short time after columns of march were formed, and the little army of patriots took up their march to the gay tune of the drum and fife.
The British bull-dog and the German boarhound stood stubbornly at bay behind the brown trenches in the little curve of the Wollonsac. At the summit of a hillock stood a battery of four brass pieces, behind which, rank upon rank of riderless horses stood patiently at their posts, awaiting the result of the battle. The whole of Baum’s force was made up of dragoons, who fought desperately on foot, to defend their led horses.
All around the camp the grim circle of patriots was pressing closer and closer on the British, in a ring of white smoke, through which the red flashes of rifles shot incessantly. The rattle of musketry was, and had been for three mortal hours, “one long clap of thunder,” as Stark himself afterward wrote.
And still the battle hung in suspense. The General’s horse was shot under him, and he rushed about on foot, his drawn sword gleaming in his hand, encouraging his troops to stand up against the fearful fire. The Americans had no artillery, and no bayonets on their rifles, but they rushed on to the charge with just as much vigor as veterans, and still the battle wavered.
It was just at this doubtful moment, when the least influence, one way or the other was important, that a loud, ringing cheer was heard over the roar of the musketry-firing, and through the white smoke rushed several horsemen at full speed, riding up the hillocks on whose summit the English battery was planted.
First on a charger as black as jet, rode a tall, thin officer in the broad-plumed hat and black curling wig of many a long year before. His black velvet coat and bright steel breastplate were those one sees in the portraits of Louis the Fourteenth of France, and he waved a long rapier in his hand, of the same antique fashion.
Even in the momentary glimpse caught of him amid the battle smoke, men marveled at the paleness of his face, and at the weird fire in his cavernous black eyes.
Following him closely was Adrian Schuyler, with his score of mounted rangers, but all seemed to be under the sway and control of the pale man on the black horse. A moment later, the black charger was among the guns, and the long blade flashed in the air, as the pale rider smote right and left with fearful strength.
Then like a wave, the handful of horse dashed on the dismounted dragoons and cut their way through. It was but a trifling aid, but all-sufficient.