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Not a trigger was pulled till they stood at a hundred fifty
yards from the enemy. Then the little band poured in their volley,
fatally answered by the Mexican host. Butler, already wounded, was shot
through the head and died instantly. Calling to the Palmettos to avenge
his death, Shields gives the word to charge. They charge--not four
hundred in all--over the plain and down upon four thousand Mexicans
securely posted under cover. At every step their ranks are thinned.
Dickenson, who succeeded Butler in command of the Palmettos, seizes the
colors as the bearer falls dead; the next moment he is down himself,
mortally wounded, and Major Gladden snatches them from his hand.
Adams, Moragne, and nearly half the gallant band are prostrate. A very
few minutes more and there will be no one left to bear the glorious
flag.
But at this very moment a deafening roar is heard in the direction of
the _tete de pont_. Round shot and grape, rifle-balls and canister, come
crashing down the causeway into the Mexican ranks from their own
battery.


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