“Men,” he said, “this is the sword of John Sevier, the rebel that led us up the sides of King's Mountain when every tyrant gun that belched in our face called us—rebels!”
“Old Hick'ry! Old Hick'ry, forever!” came back from the lines.
Again the old sword came to attention, and again a deep hush followed.
“Men,” he said, drawing a huge rifled barreled pistol—“this is the pistol of Andrew Jackson, the rebel that whipped the British at New Orleans when every gun that thundered in his face, meant death to liberty!”
“Old Hickory! Old Hickory!!” came back in a frenzy of excitement.
Again the old sword came to attention—again, the silence. Then the old man fairly stood erect in his stirrups—he grew six inches taller and straighter and the black horse reared and rose as if to give emphasis to his rider's assertion:
“Men,” he shouted, “rebel is the name that tyranny gives to patriotism! And now, let us fight, as our fore-fathers fought, for our state, our homes and our firesides!” And then clear and distinct there rang out on the night air, a queer old continental command:
“Fix, pieces!”
They did not know what this meant at first. But some old men in the line happened to remember and fixed their bayonets. Then there was clatter and clank down the entire line as others imitated their examples.
“Poise, fo'k!” rang out again more queerly still. The old men who remembered brought their guns to the proper position. “Right shoulder, fo'k!”—followed. Then, “Forward, March!” came back and they moved straight at the batteries—now silent—and straight at the breastworks, more silent still. Proudly, superbly, they came on, with not a shout or shot—a chained line with links of steel—a moving mass with one heart—and that heart,—victory.