“Now, all you men who can get there at the window fire your one shot, and then fall back and give somebody else a chance,” said the quartermaster—the one who had refused to give Cale Newman a mule. “In that way we can keep up a regular fusillade on them.”
The Confederates came on, yelling as they went, and there was more than one man who took note of the fact that discipline was a great thing. All those in front were coming to their death, but not one was seen to flinch. The men in the church began to wonder if Mr. Sprague had forgotten how to shoot, his signal was so long delayed, and some of the most excitable ones yelled “Fire!” as the rebels came on, but the calm voice of their leader broke in with:
“Steady there, men. Don’t shoot until you have the word;” and scarcely had he got the words out of his mouth when a rifle-shot came from the hotel across the way, and an instant afterward nearly a thousand rifles and carbines cracked in unison. The slaughter was fearful. The captain, who was leading the charge, fell with a dozen bullets in his person, and when the smoke cleared away so that they could see the effect of the shot, they found that the leading company had been dismounted, and their horses were running about as if they didn’t know which way to go.
“Now, you men at the window who have had a hand in this fall back,” said the quartermaster; but nobody seemed to hear him. The men struggled to keep their places, and the men in the body of the church, finding that no opportunity was to be given them, opened the door and went out. Then the rebels got another volley, and it was almost as disastrous as the first. And this wasn’t the worst of it. All the men came out from their hiding-places, from the hotel and from behind the trees that concealed them in the grove, and the surviving rebels, seeing nothing before them but a regiment of Union men who were backed by rifles that never missed, and more running up to join them, took to their heels and made the best of their time down the road.
“Get on your horses and follow them!” shouted Mr. Knight from the window of the hotel. “Don’t let one escape!”
That was the way the rebels got scattered. The Union men pursued them on fresh horses; and some of them, seeing that their chances for escape were slim indeed, threw down their arms and surrendered, while the rest took off through the woods. That was the time that Leon and Ballard might have added some glory to their escape by capturing the two men who went across the creek, but the trouble was they didn’t know how the thing had ended.
“Now, if you think they were whipped we can go up the main road,” said Leon. “But I really shouldn’t like to get so close to home and then have them jump onto me.”
“I shouldn’t like it, either,” said Ballard, with a laugh. “I would be apt to fare worse than you would. But can’t we go on and reconnoitre the ground? If we find some of your men there we’ll be safe.”
“Let us try it,” said Leon. “Anything is better than walking through this thick underbrush.”
Leon was not more than half a mile below the bridge, and before he had gone that distance he heard somebody talking in the road. He raised his hand to Ballard, and the latter at once took his horse by the head and forced it down. Leon held on, and after carefully feeling his way came upon several Union men who were gathered about a rebel who had been shot from his horse. One of the Union men he recognized as Bud McCoy, but who the others were he didn’t know.