Yet, down this narrow lane, leading into the very jaws
of death, came the three hundred.
On the prairie, at the edge of the woodland in which he knew his wily
foe lay hidden, Zagonyi halted his command. He spurred along the line.
With eager glance he scanned each horse and rider. To his officers he
gave the simple order, "Follow me! do as I do!" and then, drawing up in
front of his men, with a voice tremulous and shrill with emotion, he
spoke:--
"Fellow-soldiers, comrades, brothers! This is your first battle. For our
three hundred, the enemy are two thousand. If any of you are sick, or
tired by the long march, or if any think the number is too great, now is
the time to turn back." He paused; no one was sick or tired. "We must
not retreat. Our honor, the honor of our General and our country, tell
us to go on. I will lead you. We have been called holiday soldiers for
the pavements of St. Louis; to-day we will show that we are soldiers for
the battle. Your watchword shall be, '_The Union and Fremont_!' Draw
sabre! By the right flank,--quick trot,--march!"
Bright swords flashed in the sunshine, a passionate shout burst from
every lip, and with one accord, the trot passing into a gallop, the
compact column swept on to its deadly purpose. Most of them were boys. A
few weeks before they had left their homes. Those who were cool enough
to note it say that ruddy cheeks grew pale, and fiery eyes were dimmed
with tears.
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