Beckham came up. “Captain Hart, draw a piece by hand down into the road! Get hitched up there, double-quick! Into position on the knoll yonder!—Oh, here comes support!” The Sixth Virginia Cavalry had been on picket; the Seventh Virginia Cavalry doing grand guard. Alert and in the saddle, they had seen and heard. Now from toward Brandy Station up they raced, like a friendly whirlwind, to the point of danger. A cheer from the artillery welcomed them, and they shouted in return. Flournoy and the Sixth dashed down the Beverly Ford road and deployed in the woods to the right. Marshall and the Seventh followed and deployed to the left. Artillery limbered up and took to the high ground near St. James Church. Up galloped Eleventh and Twelfth Virginia and fell into line behind the guns. Jeb Stuart, in the saddle on Fleetwood Hill, his blue eyes upon the Beverly Ford situation, found a breathless aide beside him. “General! General! They’re crossing below at Kelly’s Ford! Two divisions—artillery and infantry behind! They’ve got us front and rear!” Stuart’s eyes danced. He stroked his beard. “All right! All right! I’ll send Robertson and Hampton—Here’s W.F.H. Lee—Cary, too! This is going to be the dandiest fight!” A brigadier galloped up. “General, shall we detach regiments to guard all approaches?” “Too many approaches, General! We’ll keep concentrated and deliver the blow where the blow is due! Will you listen to that delightful fuss?—Dabney, you go tell General Hampton to place a dismounted battalion by Carrico Mills.” The clang and firing in the Beverly Ford woods grew furious—the Sixth and Seventh fighting with the Eighth New York and the Eighth Illinois. On pushed the Federal horse, many and bold, Buford’s Regulars, trained, efficient. The forward surge, the backward giving, brought all upon the edge of the wood. There was charge and countercharge, carbine firing, sabring, shouts, scream of horses, shock and fire, hand-to-hand fighting. Back and upward roared the surge, up and over the hill where were the guns, the guns that were trained, but could not be fired, so inextricably was friend intertwined with foe. The shouting blue laid hold of the guns; the cannoneers fought hand-to-hand, with pistol muzzle and pistol butt, dragging at the horses’ reins, striking men from the saddle, covering the guns, wrenching off the blue clutch. Then came like a jubilant whirlwind the supporting grey, Hampton and Lee. “Isn’t it beautiful?” asked Jeb Stuart on Fleetwood Hill. “Oh, ho! They’re coming thick from Kelly’s Ford!” “General Robertson reports, sir, that there’s artillery and infantry on his front. The cavalry, in great strength, is sweeping to the right—” “Fine! They’re all coming to Fleetwood Hill. Go, tell Major Beckham to send any guns that he can spare.”