Fifteen minutes afterward, Pate was dead. Attacked at once in front and on both flanks in the road, his little force had been cut to pieces. He fell with three of his captains, and his handful were scattered.
Stuart witnessed all, and his eye grew fiery.
“Pate has died the death of a hero!”{1} he exclaimed.
{Footnote 1: His words.}
“Order Wickham to dismount his brigade, and attack on the right!” he added to Lieutenant Garnett, aid-de-camp. Twenty minutes afterward, Wickham’s men were seen advancing, and driving the enemy before them. This relieved the left, and Wickham continued to push on until he struck up against a heavy line behind rail breastworks in the woods.
He then fell back, and each side remained motionless, awaiting the movement of the other.
Such was the preface to the real battle of Yellow Tavern,—the species of demonstration which preluded the furious grapple.
Stuart’s melancholy had all vanished. He was in splendid spirits. He hastened back his artillery to the point from which it had been driven, and soon its defiant roar was heard rising above the woods.
At the same moment a courier galloped up.
“What news?”