McDunn, superbly mounted, scarcely raised his clear, penetrating
voice: "Cannoneers mount gun-carriages; caissons follow; drivers,
put spur and whip to horses--forward--march!" he said.
"Trot out!" rang the bugles; the horses broke into a swinging lope
across the dry ridges of the cotton field, whips whistled, the
cannoneers bounced about on the chests, guns, limbers and caissons
thumped, leaped, jolted, rose up, all wheels in the air at once,
swayed almost to overturning, and thundered on in a tornado of
dust, leaders, swing team, wheel team straining into a frantic
gallop.
The powerful horses bounded forward into a magnificent stride;
general and staff tore on ahead toward the turnpike. Suddenly,
right past them came a driving storm of stampeding cavalry,
panic-stricken, riding like damned men, tearing off and hurling
from them carbines, canteens, belts; and McDunn, white with rage,
whipped out his revolver and fired into them as they rushed by in a
torrent of red dust. From his distorted mouth vile epithets
poured; he cursed and damned their cowardice, and, standing up in
his stirrups, riding like a cossack at full speed, attempted to use
his sabre on the fugitives from the front.
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