"What in God's name shall I do?" he implored. "They've got six thous'n' men."
"Call the officers together, and put it to vote."
"Well, you fetch 'em, Cap. I swear I'm too sick to stan' up."
Down he sat in the dust, resting his elbows on his knees, and his head between his hands. Colburne sought out the officers, seven in number, besides himself, and all, as it chanced, Lieutenants.
"Gentlemen," he said, "we are dishonored cowards if we surrender this fort without fighting."
"Dam'd if we don't have the biggest kind of a scrimmage first," returned the Louisianian.
The afflicted Gazaway rose to receive them, opened the communication of the rebel general, dropped it, picked it up, and handed it to Colburne, saying, "Cap, you read it."
It was a polite summons to surrender, stating the investing force at six thousand men, declaring that the success of an assault was certain, offering to send the garrison on parole to New Orleans, and closing with the hope that the commandant of the fort would avoid a useless effusion of blood.
"Now them's what I call han'some terms," broke in Gazaway eagerly. "We can't git no better if we fight a week. And we can't fight a day. We hain't got the men to whip six thous'n' Texans. I go for takin' terms while we can git 'em."