The force behind the hill suddenly came over it, yelling and whooping like savages. Colonel Baker was in front of his men, urging them to resist the impending shock. He was calm and collected, standing with his face to the foe, his left hand in his bosom. A man sprang from the Rebel ranks, ran up behind him, and with a self-cocking revolver fired six bullets into him. Two soldiers in front of him fired at the same time. One bullet tore open his side, another passed through his skull. Without a murmur, a groan, or a sigh, he fell dead. But as he fell, Captain Beirel of the California regiment leaped from the ranks and blew out the fellow's brains with his pistol. There was a fierce and terrible fight. The Californians rushed forward to save the body of their beloved commander. They fell upon the enemy with the fury of madmen. They thought not of life or death. They had no fear. Each man was a host in himself. There was a close hand-to-hand contest, bayonet-thrusts, desperate struggles, trials of strength. Men fell, but rose again, bleeding, yet still fighting, driving home the bayonet, pushing back the foe, clearing a space around the body of the fallen hero, and bearing it from the field. While this contest was going on, some one said, "Fall back to the river." Some of the soldiers started upon the run. "Stand your ground!" shouted Colonel Devens. Some who had started for the river came back, but others kept on. The line was broken, and it was too late to recover what had been lost. They all ran to the bank of the river. Some halted on the edge of the bluff and formed in line, to make another stand, but hundreds rushed down the banks to the boats. They pushed off into the stream, but the overloaded flat-boat was whirled under by the swift current, and the soldiers were thrown into the water. Some sank instantly, others came up and clutched at sticks, thrust their arms towards the light, and with a wild, despairing cry went down. Some clung to floating planks, and floated far down the river, gaining the shore at Edward's Ferry. A few who could swim reached the island. All the while the Rebels from the bank poured a murderous fire upon the struggling victims in the water and upon the bank. Lieutenant Bramhall ran his cannon down the bank into the river, to save them from falling into the hands of the enemy. Some of the officers and soldiers secreted themselves in the bushes till darkness came on, then sprung into the river and swam to the island, and thus escaped,--reaching it naked, chilled, exhausted, to shiver through the long hours of a cold October night. Of the seventeen hundred who crossed the Potomac, nearly one half were killed, wounded, or captured by the enemy.