“Santa Anna’s got near twelve hundred men, already,” answered Jim. “But now we’ll all be in here together. It’ll be a fight to a finish. Here comes the general.”
General Houston, in his whitish hat, his ragged stained black coat and snuff-colored trousers, cowhide boots and sword dangling in its rusted scabbard from his thong belt, was striding from cook fire to cook fire, among the messes.
“Do you want to fight, men?” he was inquiring, right and left. “Shall we fight, or wait? I know the opinion of the officers; but what do you say?”
Shrill cheers and hoarse shouts volleyed at him. Impulsive hands slapped him on the shoulder.
“Fight! Fight!”
“Hurrah!”
“Lead us out, general!”
Jim and Ernest joined in the uproar. The general was now smiling grimly.
“All right,” he announced, repeatedly. “Very well. Get your dinners and I will lead you into the fight, and if you whip them every one of you shall be a captain.”