But our doubts were soon terminated. From the rapidly advancing column two guns shot out and unlimbered. Then two white puffs of smoke spouted from their muzzles, and the enemy’s shell burst directly in our faces. The horse artillery returned the fire, and I hastened back with the intelligence to Stuart. “It is only a squadron, I suppose,” he replied with great coolness. “Go back and get all the cavalry you can, and charge the guns and bag them!”[1] [Footnote: His words] It is impossible to imagine any thing calmer than the speaker’s voice. I knew, however, that the attack was more critical than he supposed; hastened back; came up with two regiments; and they ascended the hill at full gallop, leaping the ravines, and darting toward the crest. Suddenly it blazed with staggering volleys. The Federal cavalry had rushed straight across the fields toward the hill--ascended its western slope as we ascended the eastern, and met us--coming on, in squadron front, they struck the Confederates advancing in column of fours, and in confusion from the rough ground--they recoiled--were thrown into disorder; and with loud cheers the enemy swarmed all over Fleetwood Hill. The battle seemed lost. Stuart was cut off, and hemmed in between two powerful bodies of Federal cavalry, supported by infantry and artillery. All that saved us at that moment, was the “do or die” fighting of the cavalry and horse artillery. On the crest of Fleetwood took place a bitter and obstinate struggle. It was one of those fights of the giants, which once witnessed is never forgotten. The cannoneers of the horse artillery fought as savagely, hand to hand, as the regular cavalry; and the crest became the scene of a mad wrestle, rather of wild beasts than men. All at once the form of Davenant appeared amid the smoke. He had come rapidly from the front, and now threw himself into the combat like the bloodhound to which Stuart had compared him. His sad smile had disappeared; his cheeks were flushed; his eyes fiery;--leaping from his horse, he seized the sponge-staff of a gun, from which all the cannoneers had been driven, and ramming home a charge of canister, directed the gun upon a column of the enemy. Before he could fire, a Federal cavalryman rode at him, and cut furiously at his bare head, with the full weight of his sabre. Davenant did not try to draw his sword--the attempt would have been useless. In his hand he had a weapon; and with a swing of the rammer he swept the cavalryman from the saddle.[1] He fell headlong, covered with blood; and Davenant aimed and fired the charge of canister--leaped upon his horse--and drawing his sword, plunged into the melee, his head bare, his eyes flaming, his voice rising loud and inspiring, above the combat. [Footnote 1: Fact.]