As the sergeant and his two companions turned a bend in the road, rebel cavalrymen, who had penetrated the jungle almost to the turnpike, opened fire on the three troopers. It was a race for life. The bullets whistled close to the ears of the Federals as they dashed by the Johnnies in ambush. Then the saddle girth of one of the privates gave way, and the terrified trooper was left sitting on his saddle in the middle of the road, his horse going on with the procession. He shouted, “Whoa!” The “rebel yell” went up as the Yankee went down. It stimulated him to the greatest effort of his life. Springing to his feet he held the saddle between his head and the Confederates to shield off their bullets, and darted into the bushes to the left of the turnpike. As he reached the thicket he threw the saddle back into the road and shouted defiantly at his would-be executioners:
“Take the old saddle, you infernal asses. I've got no use for it without a horse!”
Then he bounded away through the forest, keeping well to the left of the road. He was a pitiable sight when he rejoined the company that night. His clothes were literally torn off. He would not have been presentable at all if an artilleryman had not given him a spare shirt. It may be stated that several others reported to their company commander in about the same fix.
Some of us had taken such a deep interest in what was going on up the turnpike, that we almost forgot the rebels who were looking for us. I remember that I laughed, tired and concerned for my own safety though I was. The ludicrous figure cut by our comrade as he glanced around him when he landed in the road and yelled “Whoa!”—as if a runaway horse would stop under such circumstances—was too much for my risibility. But I did not have my laugh out. It was interrupted by one of our sergeants shouting:
“Streak it, boys—here they come!”
We made nearly as good time in getting away from that place as the mounted troopers had scored, and for the same reason. The butternut-clad cavalrymen fired their carbines almost in our faces at the first round. We needed no further notice to take to the woods. It was entirely unnecessary for “our six-footer corporal” to urge us to “remember Lot's wife,” as he led the retreat over the brow of the hill and bounded down the slope out of range.
As I halted after crossing the divide to catch my breath, a terrible racket broke out in the woods to the right. As near as I could judge, not having paid much attention to the points of the compass, there was trouble somewhere in the vicinity of the turnpike where we had parted with the Confederates. There was no mistaking the sounds. There was fighting out there in the woods, and the cheering of Federal cavalrymen was heard above the yell of our late pursuers.
“We're licking 'em out o' their boots!” said my bunkey, who had kept neck and neck with me through the woods.
“That's what we're doing.”
“I'd go back and take a hand if I had a horse.”