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 melee 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