At daybreak, Stuart was going at full gallop to the front.
A rapid fire of skirmishers, mingled with the dull roar of cannon,
indicated that Nighthawk had not been deceived.
All at once the sharp-shooters were seen falling back from the woods.
"Bring me a piece of artillery!" exclaimed Stuart, darting to the
front.
But the attack of the enemy swept all before it. Stuart was driven
back, and was returning doggedly, when the gun for which he had sent,
galloped up, and unlimbered in the road.
It was too late. Suddenly a solid shot screamed above us; the gun was
hurled from its carriage, and rolled shattered and useless in the wood;
the horses were seen rearing wild with terror, and trying to kick out
of the harness.
Suddenly one of them leaped into the air and fell, torn in two by a
second round shot.
"Quick work!" said Stuart, grimly.
And turning round to me, he said, pointing to a hill in rear--
"Post three pieces on that hill to rake all the roads."
The order, like the former, came too late, however. The enemy advanced
in overpowering force--drove Stuart back beyond his head-quarters,
where they captured the military satchel of the present writer--and
still rushing forward, like a hurricane, compelled the Confederate
cavalry to retire behind Goose Creek.
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