A number of humane, chivalrous, civilizing, kind people intended to capture some little Ingens for servants. One fellow declared that Captain Jack’s pacing hoss should be his.
To have heard the camp talk the night before the battle, you would have supposed that sundown, next day, would find these brave men loaded with Indian plunder and military glory, going toward home in fine style, with great speeches in rehearsal to deliver to the gaping crowds, who would hang, with breathless interest, on the words that they would deal out with becoming modesty.
That night was a long one to ambitious, noisy men; and, sad to say, a last one to some of the bravest of the army.
But the guard is stationed for the night, the council of officers has been held, and the moon settles slowly away; the soldiers sleep. The orders for the morrow are understood, and quiet reigns throughout the hopeful camp.
No doubt crosses the minds of the men, and, perhaps, of but few officers, so sanguine are they of success. The greatest fear expressed was, that the fight would not last long enough to give all a fair show to win distinction.
Rest quiet, my poor, deluded countrymen! Some of you are taking your last sleep but one,—the sleep of death.
If you had asked the opinion of Maj. Jackson and John Fairchild, or Press Dorris, they would have set your hearts at ease, about having an opportunity to fight a little on the morrow. You will have a chance to try your metal, never fear, my dear friends.