{Footnote 1: His words.}
I set out at full gallop, and soon reached the column. At the head of it rode Young, the beau sabreur of Georgia, erect, gallant, with his brave eye and smile.
I pointed out the enemy and gave the order.
“All right!” exclaimed Young, and, turning to his men, he whirled his sabre around his head and shouted,
“Forward!”
The column thundered on, and as it passed I recognized Mohun, his flashing eye and burnished sabre gleaming from the dust-cloud.
In five minutes they were in front of the enemy—the men wheeled and faced the Federal line.
“Charge!” rose from a hundred lips. Spurs were buried in the hot flanks; the mass was hurled at the enemy; and clashing like thunder, sword against sword, swept every thing before it. Not a single shot was fired—the sabre only was used. The enemy were broken to pieces—what I saw was a wild mêlée of whirling swords, flying horses, men cloven to the chin, while others were seen throwing themselves from the saddle, and raising their hands to escape the keen swordsmen slashing at them.{1}
{Footnote 1: Fact.}
The great force of the enemy sweeping down on Stuart’s flank was thus routed. The spectacle which followed was ludicrous as well as exciting. The enemy fled in disorder. Never before had I seen the nails in the hind shoes of hundreds of horses—myriads of horses’ tails streaming like meteors as they ran!