Beckham sent two of McGregor’s. Artillery was in straits of its own. Charges from the Beverly Ford woods might be repelled, but now arose the dust and thunder of the advance from Kelly’s. Impossible to stay before St. James Church and become grain between the upper and nether millstones! Artillery fell back, first to Pettis’s Hill, then to Fleetwood, and fell back with three pieces disabled. Before they could get into position, Buford’s regiments charged again. There followed a mêlée. The cannoneers, too, must deal with that charge. They had pistols which they used, they had sponge staff and odd bits of iron. As soon as it was humanly possible, they got a gun into service—then two. The shells broke and scattered the shouting blue lines. Through Brandy Station charged regiment after regiment,—blue, magnificent, shouting,—Gregg and Duffie’s divisions up from Kelly’s Ford. A dismounted squadron of Robertson’s broke before them; they fell upon a supporting battery and took the guns. On they roared, through Brandy Station, out to Fleetwood Hill. Jeb Stuart swung his hat. “Now, Cavalry of the Army of Northern Virginia! Now, Cavalry of the Army of Northern Virginia!” There followed a great cavalry fight. Squadron dashed against squadron. All was gleaming and dust and shouting, carbine smoke and wheeled lightning of sabres. June stood a-tiptoe; the earth seemed to rock; a hundred brilliant colours went in sparkles before the eyes, the ears rang. There was a mad excitement in which, whether time plunged forward like a cataract, or stood still like an arrested hearkener to the last trump, none in that abandonment could have told. It was a gay fight, shrieking with excitement, the horses mad as the riders, the air shaking like castanets. The squadrons crashed together, the sabres swung, the pistols cracked! Down went men and horses, biting the dust, gaiety going out like a blown candle. Without, air and sunshine and wild animal exultation; within, pain, smothering, and darkness, darkness.... The guns were taken, the guns were retaken; the grey gave back, the blue gave back. The battle lines wheeled and charged, wheeled and charged. There was shock and fire and a mad mêlée—a staccato fight, with cymbal and quick drum. And ever in front tossed the feather of Stuart. To and fro, through the hot June weather, the battle swung. Though no one could tell the time, time passed. The blue gave back—slowly. Slowly the grey pressed them eastward. A train shrieked into Brandy Station, and grey infantry came tumbling out. Loud blew Pleasanton’s bugles. “Leave the fight a drawn fight, and come away!”