One night in four you have slept, often in the storm, with only a wintry sky above your heads.

You have marched in the face of a foe of more than double your number--led on by chiefs who have won a national reputation under the old flag--intrenched in hills of his own choosing, and strengthened by all the appliances of military art.
With no experience but the consciousness of your own manhood, you have driven him from his strongholds, pursued his inglorious flight, and compelled him to meet you in battle.

When forced to fight, he sought the shelter of rocks and hills.

You drove him from his position, leaving scores of his bloody dead unburied.

His artillery thundered against you, but you compelled him to flee by the light of his burning stores, and to leave even the banner of his rebellion behind him.