Forward it was.

They followed him, gathered about him, gained an angle of the fort, and fought where he fell, around his prostrate body, over his peaceful heart,--shielding its dead silence by their living, pulsating ones,--till they, too, were stricken down; then hacked, hewn, battered, mangled, heroic, yet overcome, the remnant was beaten back.
Ably sustained by their supporters, Anglo-African and Anglo-Saxon vied together to carry off the palm of courage and glory.

All the world knows the last fought with heroism sublime: all the world forgets this and them in contemplating the deeds and the death of their compatriots.

Said Napoleon at Austerlitz to a young Russian officer, overwhelmed with shame at yielding his sword, "Young man, be consoled: those who are conquered by my soldiers may still have titles to glory." To say that on that memorable night the last were surpassed by the first is still to leave ample margin on which to write in glowing characters the record of their deeds.
As the men were clambering up the parapet their color-sergeant was shot dead, the colors trailing stained and wet in the dust beside him.
Ercildoune, who was just behind, sprang forward, seized the staff from his dying hand, and mounted with it upward.

A ball struck his right arm, yet ere it could fall shattered by his side, his left hand caught the flag and carried it onward.