Tom’s legs seemed to be in excellent condition, notwithstanding the toilsome marches of the last twenty-four hours; and he dashed forward into the woods followed by only a dozen choice spirits, whose enthusiasm was equal to his own. A squad of flying rebels in front of them was the object of their present anxiety, and they soon distanced their companions.
The rebels, seeing by how small a force they were pursued, rallied and formed line again.
“Give it to them!” cried Tom, as he led his little force upon the rebels.
“Hold on, Tom!” said Hapgood; “we have gone far enough. There’s a rebel regiment forming behind us.”
“Can’t help it,” said Tom, as he rushed forward, with the veteran by his side. “Give it to them!”
Tom and his men threw themselves upon the rebel squad, and a sharp fight ensued, in which the parties fought with bayonets, clubbed muskets, and even with the death grip upon each other’s throats. The traitors could not stand it, and fled again.
The sergeant glanced behind him, and saw the rebel regiment formed ready to charge upon his own. He was cut off from his friends, with the enemy on his front and rear. Three of his men had fallen in the sharp encounter with the rebels, and most of them were wounded or bruised, and all of them out of breath. To add to the peril of the situation, the squad they had been pursuing were rallying and being reënforced by their fugitive companions.
“Bad, Tom, bad,” said Hapgood, who was puffing and blowing like a porpoise, as he ominously shook his head.
“Follow me!” said Tom, confidently, as he led the way in a direction at right angles with the advance of the party.
Our regiment had reformed again, and soon gave that in front of them enough to do. The rebels in their rear caused the sergeant’s squad no little annoyance; but they continued on their course, loading and firing as they retreated.