14 Buena Vista

Phil did not sleep long, only an hour perhaps, and then it was Breakstone’s arm on his shoulder that awakened him. He had laid down fully clothed, and he sprang at once to his feet. His nerves, too, had been so thoroughly keyed for action that every faculty responded at once to the call, and he was never more wide awake in his life. Quickly he looked about him and saw that it was a most brilliant morning. The sun was swinging upward with a splendor that he had not before seen in these gorges of the Sierra Madre. The mountains were bathed in light. The bare ridges and peaks stood out like carving, and the sunbeams danced along the black lava.

“It is Washington’s Birthday, and the sun is doing him honor,” said Breakstone. “But look there, Phil.”

He pointed a long straight finger into the south.

“See that tiny cloud of dust,” he said, “there where rock and sky meet. I’ll wager everything against nothing that it was raised by the hoofs of Minon’s cavalry. Santa Anna and his whole army are surely advancing. Watch it grow.”

Phil looked with eager eyes, and he saw everything that Bill Breakstone had predicted come to pass. The cloud of dust, so small at first that he could scarcely see it, grew in height, and began to spread in a yellow line along the whole horizon. By and by it grew so high that the wind lifted the upper part of it and sent it whirling off in spirals and coils. Then through the dust they saw flashes, the steel of weapons giving back the rays of the sun like a mirror.

The American scouts and sentinels had been drawn in—no need for them now—and the whole army was crouched at the mouth of the pass. Almost every soldier could watch Santa Anna unroll before them the vast and glittering panorama of his army. But Taylor himself did not see this first appearance. He had not come from Saltillo, and Wool, the second in command, waited, troubled and uneasy.

Phil was still dismounted, and he stood with his friends on one of the promontories watching the most thrilling of all dramas unfold itself, the drama in which victory or defeat, life or death are the stakes. It was at best a bare and sterile country, and now, in the finish of the winter, the scanty vegetation itself was dead. The dust from the dead earth and the dust from the surface of the lava, ground off by iron-shod hoofs, rose in clouds that always increased, and that seemed to thicken as well as to rise and broaden. To Philip’s mind occurred the likeness of a vast simoon, coming, though slowly, toward the American lines. But he knew that the heart of the simoon was a great army which considered victory absolutely sure.

“Looks as if Santa Anna had a million down there in the dust,” said Breakstone. “Dost thou remember, Sir Philip of the Mountain, the Ravine, and the Lava, that passage in Macbeth in which Birnam Wood doth come to Dunsinane? It is in my mind now because the dust of New Leon seems coming to the Pass of Angostura.”

“They are at least as well hid as Macduff’s army was by the wood.” said Phil. “That huge cloud seems to roll over the ground, and we can’t see anything in it but the flashes of light on the weapons.”

They waited awhile longer in silence. The whole American army was watching. All the preparations had been made, and soldiers and officers now had little to do but bide the time. Presently the great wall of dust split apart, then a sudden shift of wind lifted it high, and whirled it over the plain. As if revealed by the sudden lifting of a curtain, the whole magnificent army of Santa Anna stood forth, stretching along a front of two miles, and more than twenty thousand strong. A deep breath, more like a murmur, rose from the soldiers in the pass. They had known long before that they were far outnumbered. The officers had never concealed from them this fact, but here was the actual and visible presence.

“Five to one,” said Bill Breakstone, softly and under his breath.

“But they haven’t beaten us.” said Phil.

The Mexican army now halted, the cavalry of Minon in front and on the flanks, and, seen from the pass, it was certainly an array of which Mexico could be proud. Everything stained or worn was hidden. Only the splendor and glory appeared. The watchers saw the bright uniforms, the generals riding here and there, the numerous batteries, and the brilliant flags waving. Evidently they were making a camp, as if they held the rat in their trap, and would take their time about settling his fate. The sound of bugles, and then of a band playing military airs, came up, and to those in the pass these sounds were like a taunt. Arenberg, a man of few words, uttered a low guttural sound like a growl.

“They are too sure.” he said. “It iss never well to be too sure.”

“That’s the talk. Old Dutch,” said Breakstone. “First catch your army.”

They waited awhile longer, watching, and then they heard a cheer behind them in the pass. It was General Taylor, returning from Saltillo and riding hard. He emerged upon the plateau and sat there on his horse, overlooking the plain, and the great curve of Santa Anna’s army. Phil was near enough to see his face, and he watched him intently.

There was nothing romantic about old Zachary Taylor. He bad neither youth nor distinction of appearance. He was lined and seamed by forty years of service, mostly in the backwoods, and the white hair was thick around his temples. Nor was anything splendid about his uniform. It was dusty and stained by time and use. But within that rugged old frame beat the heart of a lion. He had not retreated when he heard the rumors that Santa Anna was coming, and he would not retreat now that Santa Anna was here with five to his one. Perhaps he recognized that in his sixty-two years of life his one moment for greatness had come, and he would make the most of it for himself and his country.

Long the general sat there on his horse, looking down into the plain, and the more important officers clustered in a group a short distance behind him. The brightness of the day increased. It seemed bound to make itself worthy of the great anniversary. The colors of the sunlight shifted and changed on the ridges and peaks, and the thin, luminous air seemed to bring Santa Anna’s army nearer. A breeze sprang up presently, and it felt crisp and fresh on the faces of the soldiers. It also blew out the folds of a large and beautiful American flag, which had been hoisted on one of the promontories, and as the fluttering and vivid colors glowed in the sun’s rays, a cry of defiance, not loud, but suppressed and rolling, passed through the army.

“Santa Anna will not come to any picnic,” said Bill Breakstone.

“He means much harm, and he will suffer much,” said Arenberg.

“Our army is not frightened,” said Breakstone. “I have been among the troops, and they are cheerful, even confident.”

Phil saw that the officers had been watching something intently with their glasses, and now he was able to see it himself with the naked eye.

“A messenger with a white flag is coming from Santa Anna,” he announced. “Now what can he want?”

“He can want only one thing,” said Breakstone; “but we’ll wait and let him tell it himself.”

The herald, holding his white flag aloft, rode straight toward the American army. When within three hundred yards of the American line he was met by skirmishers, who brought him forward.

“Don’t you see something familiar in that figure and face, Phil?” asked Bill Breakstone.

“Yes, I know him.” replied Phil. “I thought I knew him when he rode over the first ridge, but there can be no doubt now. It is our old friend de Armijo.”

“It is he,” said Breakstone, “and it is a safe thing to say that no man was ever more stuffed with pride, vanity, and conceit than he is now. Let’s press forward and see him as he passes. Maybe, too, we can hear what he and General Taylor say.”

De Armijo rode up the ravine at the edge of which Phil and his comrades stood. He saw them, and his look was not one of friendship.

“Good morning, Señor de Armijo,” said the irreverent Bill Breakstone, “have you come to announce the surrender of Santa Anna’s army?”

The Mexican glared, but he made no answer, riding on in silence toward General Taylor. He was magnificently mounted, his uniform was heavy with gold lace, and a small gold-hilted sword hung at his side. Evidently the nephew of the governor of New Mexico was not ashamed of himself. It was also evident that the wound Phil had given him was very slight. An officer met de Armijo, and they saluted each other with punctilious courtesy. The Mexican produced a note which was handed to General Taylor.

Old Rough and Ready did not dismount, but rested the note on his saddle-horn and read it. This note, signed by General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, President of the Mexican Republic and Commander-in-Chief of its armies, was written in rounded sentences. It stated that the American army was surrounded by twenty thousand men and could not possibly escape. Hence Santa Anna demanded General Taylor’s immediate and unconditional surrender. “I will treat you well,” he added in generous conclusion.

Phil thought that he could see the white hair around old Rough and Ready’s temples fairly bristle with defiance. He did see him lean over and say to de Armijo: “Tell him to come and take me.” But the next instant he called to Middleton and dictated to him a short answer, more polite but of the same tenor. He looked over it once, folded it, and handed it to de Armijo.

“Take that to your master.”

De Armijo saluted with all the pride and haughtiness of his race. He would have liked well a few minutes to look about and take note of the enemy’s army for his general, but they had brought him up a narrow ravine, and they allowed him no chance. Now Middleton rode back with him that the Americans might not be lacking in courtesy, and Phil and his comrades again stood by as they passed. De Armijo merely gave them a malignant glance, but as he entered the plain that low rolling sound, almost like a roar, burst forth again from the army. Nearly every soldier had divined the nature of the errand, and nearly every one also had divined the nature of old Rough and Ready’s reply.

Phil watched de Armijo and Middleton riding onward under the white flag toward the gorgeous tent where Santa Anna and his generals were gathered. He saw Middleton disappear and, after awhile, come riding back again. All these demands and refusals, ridings and returns took time, and the two armies meanwhile rested on their arms. The afternoon came, and the sun still blazed on on a scene of peace. For awhile it reminded Phil in many of its aspects of a vast spectacle, a panorama. Then he saw clouds of dust rise on both the east and west wings of the Mexican army. Horsemen moved in columns, fluid sunlight shifting and changing in colors flowing over lances and escopetas. He also saw horses drawing cannon forward, and the bronze and steel of the guns glittered.

A little after noon a heavy force of cavalry, led by Ampudia, moved forward toward an advanced knoll held by some of Taylor’s pickets. Phil thought it was the herald of the battle, but the pickets retired after a few shots, and the Mexicans took the knoll, making no attempt to pursue the pickets who fell back quietly on the main army.

Then the silence was resumed, although they could see much motion in the Mexican army, the constant movement of horsemen and the shifting of regiments and guns. A multitude of brilliant flags carried here and there fluttered in the wind. But the American army remained motionless, and the soldiers, when they talked, talked mostly in low tones.

“Phil, you didn’t eat any breakfast,” said Bill Breakstone, “and if I didn’t remind you of it, you would skip dinner. A soldier fights best on a full stomach, and as they’re serving out coffee and bacon and other good things now’s your time.”

“To tell you the truth, I hadn’t thought of it,” said the boy.

“Well, think of it, Sir Philip of the Spectacle and the Panorama. It isn’t often that you’ll have a chance to sit on a front seat in an open air theater like this, and see deploying before you an army of twenty thousand men, meaning business.”

Phil ate and drank mechanically almost, although the food gave him new strength without his being conscious of it, and he still watched. The long afternoon waned, the sun passed the zenith, and the colors still shifted and changed on the bare peaks and ridges, but, save for the seizing of the lone knoll, the army of Santa Anna did not yet advance, although in its place it was still fluid with motion, like the colors of a kaleidoscope. It seemed to Phil that Bill Breakstone’s theatrical allusions applied with peculiar force. Apparently they were setting the scenes down below, this color here, this color there, so many flags at this point, and so many at that point, bands and trumpets to the right, and bands and trumpets to the left. It was a spectacle full of life, color, and movement, but the boy grew very impatient. Great armies did not march forward for that purpose, and for that purpose alone.

“Why don’t they attack?” he exclaimed.

“Having the rat in the trap, I suppose that Santa Anna means to play with it a little,” replied Bill Breakstone. “There’s nothing like playing with a delicious mouse a little while before you eat it.”

“Did you ever see anything more hateful than the manner of that fellow de Armijo?” asked Phil. “He bore himself as if we were already in their hands.”

“Doubtless he thought so,” said Breakstone, “and it is equally likely that his thought is also the thought of Santa Anna, Minon, Torrejon, Pacheco, Lombardini, and all the rest. But states of mind are queer things, Phil. You can change your mind, it may change itself, or others may change it for you. Any one of these things can happen to Santa Anna or to your genial young friend, de Armijo.”

“It iss well to be patient.” said Arenberg.

The sun went on down the heavens. The light came more obliquely, but it was as brilliant as ever. In two more hours the sun would be gone behind the mountains, when Phil, still watching the Mexican army, saw a flash of fire near the center of the line. A shell rose, flashed through the air, and burst on the plateau held by the Americans. Phil, despite himself, uttered a shout, and so did many other youthful soldiers. They thought the battle would now begin. A battery of Mexican howitzers also opened fire, and the smoke rolled toward the north. The Mexican general, Mejia, on the American right, began to press in, and Ampudia, on the left, threatened with great force. But there was not yet any reply from the American line. Old Rough and Ready rode along the whole battle front, saw that all was in order, and at times surveyed the Mexican advance through powerful glasses.

But the Mexican movements were still very slow, and Phil fairly quivered with impatience. If they were going to fight, he was anxious for the fighting to begin, and to have it over. Up from the plain came the calls of many bugles, the distant playing of bands, and the beat of drums, broken now and then by the irregular discharges of the cannon and the crackling of rifle shots.

But it was not yet a battle, and the sun was very low, threatening to disappear soon behind the mountains. Its parting rays lighted up the plateau, the ravines and promontories, and the pass with a vivid red light. Phil saw the general turn his horse away from the edge of the plateau, as if convinced that there would be no battle, and then suddenly turn him back again, as a great burst of cannon and rifle fire came from the left. Ampudia, having attained a spur of the mountain, was making a fierce attack, pushing forward both horse and foot and trying to get around the American flank. The firing for a little while was rapid. The rifle flashes ran in a continuous blaze along both lines, and the boom of the cannon came back in hollow echoes from the gorges of the Sierra Madre. The black smoke floated in coils and eddies along the ridges and peaks.

Phil and his comrades had nothing to do with this combat except to sit still and listen.

“They are merely feeling for a position,” said Bill Breakstone. “They want a good place from which they can crash down on our left flank in the morning, but I don’t think they’ll get it.”

Already the sun was gone in the east, and its rays were dying on the mountains. Then the night itself came down, with the rush of the south, and the firing from both cannon and rifles ceased. Ampudia had failed to secure the coveted position, but presently the two armies, face to face in the darkness, lay down to rest, save for the thick lines of pickets almost within rifle shot of one another. Once more the night was heavy with chill, but Phil did not feel it now. He and his comrades looked to their horses and secured places for rest. The General, still deeply anxious about his rear guard at Saltillo and fearing a flanking movement by Santa Anna, around the mountain, rode back once more to the town, under the escort of Jefferson Davis, leaving the army, as before, under command of Wool. In this emergency an officer past three score showed all the physical energy and endurance of a young man, spending two days and two nights in the saddle.

Phil slept several hours, but he awoke after midnight, and did not go to sleep again. He, Arenberg, and Breakstone were under the immediate command of Middleton, who allowed them much latitude, and they used it for purposes of scouting. They crept through gullies and ravines and along the edges of the ridges, the darkness and the stone projections giving them shelter. They passed beyond the outermost American pickets, and then stopped, crouching among some bushes. All three had heard at the same time low voices of command, the clank of heavy wheels, and the rasping of hoofs over stones. The three also divined the cause, but Breakstone alone spoke of it in a whisper:

“They are dragging artillery up the side of the mountain in order that they may rake us to-morrow. That Santa Anna calls himself the Napoleon of Mexico, and he’s got some of the quality of the real Napoleon.”

By raising up a little they could see the men and horses with the guns, and they crept back to their own camp with the news. The American force was too small to attempt any checking movement in the darkness, and that night Santa Anna dragged five whole batteries up the mountainside.

It was about 4 o’clock in the morning when the three returned from their scout, and they sat down in one of the ravines about a small fire of smoldering coals. Some of the Kentuckians were with them, including Grayson, and now and then a brisk word of the coming day was said. In those cold dark hours, when vitality was at its lowest, they were not as confident as they had been. The numbers of the Mexicans weighed upon them, and Phil had not liked the sight of all those cannon taken up the side of the mountain. Their talk ceased entirely after awhile, and they sat motionless with their blankets wrapped around their bodies, because the blasts were very chill now in the Pass of Angostura. The moaning of the wind through the gorges was a familiar sound, but to-night it got upon one’s nerves.

Those last few hours were five times their rightful length, but all things come to an end, and Phil saw in the east the first narrow band of silver that betokened the dawn. Day, like night, in that southern region came fast. The sun shot above the mountain rim, its splendor came again in a flood, and up rose the two armies.

There was no delay now. On the left the heavy brigades of Ampudia opened fire at once with cannon, muskets, and rifles. They pressed forward, and at that point the American front, also, blazed with fire.

“It’s here, Phil,” cried Breakstone. “This is the battle at last!”

Cool as he usually was, he had lost his calm now, and his eyes glowed with excitement. The rosy face of Arenberg was also flushed a deeper hue than usual.

“They come!” he exclaimed.

The whole Mexican army seemed to lift itself up and advance in a vast enfolding curve, but Ampudia still pressed the hardest, endeavoring to crash in the American left, and the five batteries that had been taken up the mountainside in the night poured in a heavy fire. In five minutes a great cloud of smoke from the cannon, rifles, and muskets floated over the field. The Mexicans advanced with courage and confidence. At dawn Santa Anna had made a great address, riding up and down the lines, and they deemed victory a matter of certainty.

Phil, Breakstone, and Arenberg had left their horses in the rear, and at this moment Middleton appeared also dismounted.

“Stay with the Kentuckians there,” he said, pointing to the ravine. “They will need every man. You can be cavalrymen later if the chance comes.”

The three at once fell into line with Grayson and the others who had welcomed them to their camp, and they saw the truth of Middleton’s words. Ampudia had accumulated a great force on the ridge above the plateau, during the night, and now they were coming down in heavy masses upon the thin lines of the Kentuckians.

“It’s not just five to one. It’s eight to one,” muttered Bill Breakstone, as he looked at the long and deep columns which they were so soon to meet.

Phil felt his muscles quivering again, while a red light danced before his eyes. But it was not fear. The time for that had passed. The Kentuckians in the front rank kneeled down, with their hands on the triggers of their rifles. Clouds of dust and smoke floated over them and stung their eyes, and the deepening roar of the battle swelled from right and left. Phil knew that this great force of Mexicans was coming forward to crush them in order that another large division might pass along the plateau and flank the American army. He was good enough soldier to know that if they succeeded the trap would indeed close down so firmly upon the defenders that they could not burst from it.

The boy never took his eyes from the advancing Mexican column. He saw, or thought he saw, the dark faces, the glowing eyes, and he was quite sure that he heard the heavy tread of the approaching thousands. Some one gave the order to fire, and, with a mechanical impulse, he pulled the trigger. All the Kentuckians fired together, aiming with their usual coolness and precision, and the front rank of the Mexican advance was blown away. The Mexicans wavered, the Americans reloaded and fired again with the same deadly precision, and then from their right came the flash of cannon fire, sending the shells and heavy balls into the thick ranks of Ampudia’s men. The hesitation of the Mexicans turned into retreat, and, hurrying back, they sought refuge along the slopes of the mountains, while the Kentuckians uttered a derisive shout.

“Draw an extra breath or two, Phil,” said Bill Breakstone, “because you won’t have another chance for some time. We’ve driven back the flank, but the main army of the Mexicans will be on us in a few minutes.”

Phil did as he was bid. He was glad to see those Mexicans gone from their front, and, for the moment at least, he felt the thrill of victory. Yet, while there was rest for him, at that instant the battle was going on all about him. He seemed to hear somewhere the distant notes of a band playing, cheering the soldiers on to death. Now and then came the call of a bugle, shrill and piercing, and the rifles crashed incessantly. The air quivered with the roar of the cannon, and the echoes came rolling back from the gorges.

Now that he was really in the great battle, Phil felt an abnormal calmness. His heart ceased to beat so fast, and his blood cooled a little. He saw that the main army of the Mexicans was advancing in three columns. Two of these columns, one under Lombardini, and the other under Pacheco, came straight toward the little plateau by the side of the pass, upon which most of the American army now stood. The front of each column was a mass of lancers, and rumbling batteries of twelve-pounders came behind. The third column advanced toward the pass.

It was now about nine o’clock in the morning. General Taylor had not yet arrived from Saltillo, but General Wool, his second, had thrown the whole American force in a line across the plateau and the pass, where, less than forty-five hundred in number, it awaited the full impact of twenty thousand Mexican troops. The moment was more than critical. It was terrible. It required stout hearts among the young volunteers, not trained regulars at all, as they watched the Mexican masses heave forward. Lucky it was for them that they had been born in new countries, where every boy, as a matter of course, learned the use of the rifle. And it was lucky, too, that the battery of O’Brien, a most daring and skillful officer, was on their flank to help them.

“Have you drawn those easy breaths yet, Phil?” asked Breakstone.

“Yes.”

“Good, because the chance is gone now. Hark, there go our cannon! Look, how the balls are smashing into them!”

The American battery opened at a range of only two hundred yards, and the balls and shells tore through the Mexican lines, but the Mexicans are no cowards, and they were well led that day. Their ranks closed up, and they marched past the fallen, their flags still flying, coming with steady step toward the plateau. Now their own artillery opened, and their numerous guns swept the plateau with a perfect hurricane of shot and shell. The volunteers began to fall fast. The Mexican gunners were doing deadly work, and the Kentuckians where Phil stood raised their rifles again.

“Fire, Phil! Fire as fast as you can reload and pull trigger. It’s now or never!”

Phil again did as he was bid, and the others did the same, but this was a far more formidable attack than the one that they had driven back earlier. The Mexicans never ceased to come. The fire from their cannon grew heavier and more deadly, and the lancers were already charging upon the front lines, thrusting with their long weapons. It was only inborn courage and tenacity that saved them now. Phil saw the glittering squadrons wheeling down upon them.

“Kneel and fire as they come close.” shouted Middleton, “and receive them on the bayonet!”

It seemed to Phil that the lances were almost in their faces before they fired. He saw the foam on the nostrils of the horses, their great, bloodshot eyes, and their necks wet with sweat. He saw the faces of the riders wet, too, with sweat, but glowing with triumph, and he saw them, also, brandishing the long lances with the glittering steel shafts. Then the rifles crashed so close together that they were blended in one volley, and the lancers who did not fall reeled. But they quickly came on again to ride directly upon a hedge of bayonets which hurled them back. Once more the triumphant shout of the Kentuckians rose, but it was quickly followed by a groan. At different points the volunteers from another state, daunted by their great losses and the overwhelming numbers that continually pressed upon them, were giving way. Their retreat became a panic, and the helpful battery was left uncovered. The brave O’Brien was compelled to unlimber and retreat with his guns. The flying regiment ran into another that was coming up and carried it along in its panic of the moment.

Phil and his comrades had full cause for the groan that they uttered. The day seemed lost. The column of Lombardini was on the southern edge of the plateau and was pressing forward in masses that seemed irresistible. The lancers had recovered themselves and were slaying the fugitives, while the Mexican cannon also hailed shot and shell upon them.

Burning tears rose to Phil’s eyes—he could not help it, he was only a boy—and he turned appealingly to the faithful Breakstone.

“Shall we, too, have to retreat?” he shouted.

“Not yet! Not yet, I hope!” Breakstone shouted back. “No, we don’t retreat at all! See the brave Illinois boys turning the current!”

An entire Illinois regiment had thrown itself in the path of pursuers and pursued, and two fresh cannon began to cut through the Mexican masses. The fugitives were protected and saved from wholesale slaughter, but Bill Breakstone claimed too much. It was impossible for a single regiment and two guns to withstand so many thousands crowded at that point, and the Illinois lads did retreat. But they retreated slowly and in perfect order, sending volley after volley into the advancing masses. Nor did they go far. They halted soon in a good position and stood there, firing steadily into the Mexican columns. Yet they seemed lost. The Mexicans in vast numbers were pouring down upon the plateau, and the Illinois men were now attacked in the flank as well as in the front.

“Time for us to be doing something.” said Breakstone, and at that moment the order came. The Kentuckians, also, retreated, turning, as fast as they reloaded, to fire a volley, aiming particularly at the lancers, whose weapons were so terrible at close quarters. Phil looked more than once through all the fire and smoke for de Armijo, but he didn’t see him until the battle was a full hour old. Then it was only a passing glimpse, and he knew that his shot had missed—he had fired without remorse, as he now regarded de Armijo as so much venom. After the single shot the columns of smoke floated in between, and he saw him no more.

Phil knew that the battle was at a most critical stage, that it was even worse, that all the chances now favored the Mexicans. An inexperienced boy even could not doubt it. The charge of the lancers had driven back a small detachment of mounted volunteers, the American riflemen posted on the slopes of the mountain were forced out of their positions, and the great columns of infantry were still pressing on the left, cutting their way to the rear of the army.

It seemed to Phil that they were completely surrounded, and, in fact, they nearly were, but the men of Illinois and Kentucky redoubled their efforts. The barrels of their rifles grew hot with so much firing. The mingled reek of dust and sweat, of smoke and burned gunpowder, stung their nostrils and filled their eyes, half blinding them. The shell and grape and bullets of the Mexicans now reached the Kentuckians, too. Phil, as the smoke lifted now and then, saw many a comrade go down. He, Arenberg, and Breakstone were all wounded slightly, though they were not conscious then of their hurts.

Worse came. The great enclosing circle of the Mexicans drove them into a mass. The regiment that had broken in panic could not yet be rallied, although their officers strove like brave men to get them back in line, and, like brave men, died trying. Phil saw officers falling all around him, although Middleton was still erect, sword in hand, encouraging the men to fight on.

“It can’t be that we are beaten! It can’t be!” cried the boy in despair.

“No,” said Breakstone, “it’s not a beating, but it’s a darned fine imitation. Come on, boys! Come on, all of you! We’ll drive them back yet!”

Phil felt some one strike against him in the smoke. It was Dick Grayson, of Paris.

“Looks hot, Phil!” said that ingenuous youth. There was a tremendous discharge of artillery, and Grayson went down. But he promptly sprang up.

“It is hot.” he shouted, “hotter than I thought. But I’m not hurt. It was only the wind from a cannon-ball. Look out, here come the lancers again, and our rifles are unloaded!”

The long glittering line of lancers appeared through the smoke, and Phil thought that their day was done. It seemed to him that he could not resist any more, but, at that moment a mighty crash of artillery came from the pass. The third column of Mexicans had just come within range of Washington’s guns, and the gunners, restrained hitherto, were pouring shot and shell, grape and canister, as fast as they could fire, into the Mexican mass. The column was hurled back by the sudden and terrific impact, and, breaking, it fled in a panic. The Mexicans on the plateau were affected by the flight of their comrades, and they, too, lancers and all, wavered. The Illinois troops came pouring back. With them were more Kentuckians and Bragg’s battery, and then Sherman’s battery, too. Never were cannon better served than were the American guns on that day. When the guns began to thunder in front of them and between them and the enemy, the fugitives were rallied and were brought back into the battle.

Both batteries were now cutting down the Mexicans at the foot of the mountain, but Breakstone, cool as always, pointed to the columns of Ampudia’s infantry, which were still pressing hard on the flank, seeking to reach the rear of the American army.

“If they get there we are lost.” he said.

“There is dust behind us now,” exclaimed Phil. “See that column of it coming fast!”

“Good God, can they have got there already!” cried Breakstone, despair breaking at last through his armor of courage.

The cloud of dust rose like a tower and came fast. Then a shout of joy burst from the Americans. Through that cloud of dust showed the red face and white hair of Old Rough and Ready, their commander, returning from Saltillo, and with him were Davis’s Mississippians and May’s mounted men. Wool galloped forward to meet his chief, who rode upon the plateau and looked at the whole wide curve of the battle as much as the dust and smoke would allow.

“The battle is lost,” said Wool.

“That is for me to say,” said Taylor.

Yet it seemed that Wool, a brave and resolute leader, was right. A great percentage of the American army was already killed or wounded. Many of its best officers had fallen, and everywhere the Mexicans continually pressed forward in columns that grew heavier and heavier. Santa Anna worthily proved that day that, whatever he may have been otherwise he possessed devouring energy, great courage, and a spark of military genius. And the generals around him, Lombardini, Pacheco, Villamil, Torrejon, Ampudia, Minon, Juvera, Andrade, and the rest were full of the Latin fire which has triumphed more than once over the cold courage and order of the North.

The crisis was visible to every one. Ampudia and his infantry passing to the rear of the American army must be stopped. Davis gathered his Mississippians and hurled them upon Ampudia’s men, who outnumbered them five to one. They fired, then rushed down one slope of a ravine that separated them from the enemy, and up the other slope directly into the ranks of the Mexicans, firing another volley almost face to face. So great was their impact that the head of the Mexican column was shattered, and the whole of it was driven back. Ampudia’s men, by regiments, sought shelter along the slopes of the mountain.

The battle was saved for the moment, but for the moment only. Few battles have swung in the balance oftener than this combat at Buena Vista, when it seemed as if the weight of a hair might decide it.

“We can breathe again, Phil,” cried Breakstone. “They haven’t flanked us there, but I don’t think we’ll have time for more than two breaths.”

The battle, just in front of them, paused for as instant or two, but it went on with undiminished fury elsewhere. While Phil let his heated rifle cool, he watched this terrible conflict at the mouth of the grim pass, a combat that swung to and fro and that refused to be decided in favor of either. But, as he rested, all his courage came back anew. The little army, the boy volunteers, had already achieved the impossible. For hours they had held off the best of the Mexican troops, five to their one. More than once they had been near to the verge, but nobody could say that they had been beaten.

Phil’s feeling of awe came again, as he looked at the great stage picture, set with all the terrible effects of reality. The smoke rose always, banking up against the sides of the mountain, but dotted with red and pink spots, the flame from the rifles of the sharpshooters who lurked among the crags. From the mouth of the pass came a steady roaring where the cannon of Washington were fired so fast. The smoke banked up there, too, but it was split continually by the flash of the great guns. Out of the smoke came the unbroken crash of rifles, resembling, but on a much larger scale, the ripping of a heavy cloth. Now and then both sides shouted and cheered.

Bill Breakstone was a shrewd judge of a battle that day. The crisis had passed, but in a few minutes a new crisis came. For in their rear began another fierce conflict. Torrejon’s splendid brigade of lancers made its way around the mountain and fell upon the small force of Arkansas and Kentucky volunteers under Yell and Marshall at the hacienda of Buena Vista. Yell was killed almost instantly, many other men went down, but the volunteers held fast. Some, their horses slain or wounded, reached the roofs of houses, and with their long rifles emptied saddle after saddle among the lancers. It was a confused and terrible struggle, but, in an instant or two, American dragoons came to the rescue. The lancers gave way and fled, bearing with them their leader, the brave Torrejon, who was wounded badly. Again the army was saved by courage and quick action. If Torrejon and his men had been able to hold Buena Vista, the American force would have been destroyed.

Phil knew nothing of the conflict at Buena Vista itself until the day was done, because he was soon in the very thickest of it again himself. He and his comrades stood among the decimated squares on the plateau, where the battle had shifted for a moment, and where the smoke was rising. Looking over the field, littered with men and horses, it seemed that half of his countrymen had fallen. Everywhere lay the dead, and the wounded crawled painfully to the rear. Yet the unhurt could give little aid to the hurt, because the Mexican battle front seemed as massive and formidable as ever.

“Load, Phil, load!” whispered Bill Breakstone. “See, they’re coming again!”

Masses of lancers were gathering anew on the plateau, among them many of Torrejon’s men, who had come back from the other side of the mountain, and the lifting smoke enabled Phil and his comrades to see them clearly. The defenders—they were not many now—were more closely packed. The men of the West and South were mingled together, but with desperate energy the officers soon drew them out in a line facing the lancers. Sherman with his cannon also joined them. In the shifting fortunes of the day, another critical moment came. If the charge of the lancers passed over their line, the Americans were beaten.

The battle elsewhere sank and died for the time. All looked toward the two forces on the plateau, the heavy squadrons of cavalry advancing, and the thin line of infantry silent and waiting. The Mexican bugles ceased to sound, and the firing stopped. Phil and the men with him in the front rank knelt again. Arenberg, as usual, was on one side of him, and Breakstone on the other. Middleton was not far away. Phil glanced up and down the American line and, as he saw how few they were, his heart, after a period of high courage, sank like a plummet in a pool. It did not seem possible to stop the horsemen. Then his courage rose again. They had done a half dozen wonders that day, they could do another half dozen.

It was one of the most vivid moments of Phil’s life, fairly burnt into his soul. The smoke, lifting higher and higher, disclosed more and more of the field, with its dead and dying everywhere. The mountains were coming out of the mists and vapors, and showing their bare crags and peaks. There was no sound but the hoof beats of the horsemen and an occasional cry from the wounded, but Phil did not even hear these. There was to him only an awful and ominous silence, as the heavy columns drew nearer and nearer and he saw the menacing faces and ready weapons. The blood quivered in his veins, but he did not give back. Nor did the others, most of whom were boys not much older than he.

“I think this will tell the tale,” whispered Bill Breakstone. “Look how steady our lads are! Veteran regulars could not bear themselves better in the face of five to one.”

Nearer and nearer came the lancers. Something in the aspect of the steady troops that awaited the shock must have daunted them, because already on that day they had shown themselves brave men more than once. The hoofbeats ceased, their line stopped and wavered, and at that instant the American rifles fired, pouring forth a stream of lead, a deadly volley.

Phil saw the blaze from a long line of muzzles, the puff of rifle smoke, and then as it lifted he tried to shut his eyes but could not. The whole front of the Mexican column was destroyed. Men and horses lay in a heap, and other riderless horses galloped wildly over the plateau. The second line of the lancers stood for a moment, but when the cannon, following up the rifles, hurled shot and shell among them, they, too, broke and fled, while the bullets from the reloaded rifles pelted them and drove them to greater speed.

A shout arose from the scanty ranks of the defense. Another critical moment had passed, and for the first time fortune shifted to the American side. Now the defenders followed up their advantage. They pressed forward, pushing the Mexicans before them, attacking them on two sides and driving them against the base of the mountain.

The whole battle now surged back toward the direction whence Santa Anna had come. The scanty division of the Americans, after so long a defense, a defense that seemed again and again to be hopeless, massed themselves anew and attacked the Mexican army with redoubled vigor. Phil felt the song of victory singing in his ears, the blood leaped in his veins, and a great new store of strength came from somewhere, as he, with Breakstone and Arenberg yet on either side of him, marched forward now, not backward.

The great division of Ampudia which had threatened to surround the American force was now penned in at the foot of the mountain. This single division alone greatly outnumbered the whole American army, but panic and terror were in its ranks. The Southern and Western riflemen were advancing on three sides, sending in showers of bullets that could not miss. Nine cannon, manned by gunners as good as the world could furnish, cut down rank after rank.

Earlier in the day Phil would have thrilled with horror at the scene before him, but in such a long and furious battle his faculties had become blunted. It was nothing to see men fall, dead or wounded. The struggle for life at the expense of another’s life, the most terrible phase of war, had now come. His only conscious thought at that moment was to destroy the mass of Mexicans pressed against the mountain, and he loaded and fired with a zeal and rapidity not inferior to that of anybody.

The Mexican mass seemed to shrink and draw in upon itself. The officers encouraged the men to return the terrible fire that was cutting them down. Some did so, but it was too feeble a reply to check Taylor’s advance. Santa Anna, farther down, saw the terrible emergency. Vain, bombastic, and treacherous, he was, nevertheless, a great general, and now the spark of genius hidden in such a shell blazed up. In the height of the battle, and with five thousand of his best men being cut to pieces before him, a singular expedient occurred to him. He knew the character of the general opposed to him; he knew that Taylor was merciful and humane, and suddenly he sent forward a messenger under a white flag. Taylor, amazed, nevertheless received the messenger and ordered the firing on the trapped Mexicans to cease. He was still more amazed when he read the Mexican commander’s note. Santa Anna wished to know in rhetorical phraseology what General Taylor wanted. While Taylor was considering and preparing the reply to so strange a question at such a time, and the messenger was riding back with it, Ampudia’s whole division escaped from the trap up the base of the mountain. Then the Mexicans at the other points instantly reopened fire. It was a singular and treacherous expedient, but it succeeded.

A cry of rage rose from Phil’s company, and it was uttered by others everywhere. The boy had seen the herald under the white flag, and, all the rest, too, had wondered at the nature of the message he brought. He did not yet know what was in Santa Anna’s note, but he knew that a successful trick had been played. The blood in his veins seemed to turn to its hottest. His pulses were beating the double quick, and he felt relief only when Taylor, enraged at Santa Anna’s ruse, ordered the Kentucky and Illinois men to pursue Ampudia’s fleeing division.

Forward they went, scarcely a thousand, because very many comrades had fallen around them that day, but they had never been more eager for the charge. The smoke thinned out before them and they advanced swiftly with leveled rifles. They reached the southern edge of the plateau, and then they recoiled in horror. Santa Anna had not only saved a division by a trick, but he had used the same opportunity to draw in his columns and mass the heaviest force that had yet converged upon a single point. Ten thousand men appeared over the uneven ground and approached the single thousand. To face such numbers advancing with great guns was impossible. Again it seemed that the day, after a brilliant success, was lost.

The Americans at once turned and rushed into a gorge for shelter and defense.

The side of the gorge was so steep that Phil slipped and rolled to the bottom. But he quickly sprang up, unconscious of his bruises. Breakstone and Arenberg, with pale faces, were at his side. The gorge was not as much of a shelter and defense as it had seemed. It was instead a trap, the worst into which they had come that day. From the cliffs on both sides of the gorge the Mexicans sent down a continuous rain of bullets and shell. Santa Anna, exulting in his success, urged them on and, his seconds, Ampudia, Pacheco, Lombardini and the others, ran from point to point, encouraging their troops and crying that the battle was now won.

The Americans fired upward at their enemies, but they were pressed together in great confusion. Men and officers went down so fast that it looked to Phil like hay falling before the scythe. Here fell the brave Colonel Clay, the son of the great Henry Clay, and with him McKee and Hardin and many other gallant sons of Kentucky and Illinois.

A great horror seized Phil. Penned in that awful gorge, with that continuous shower of steel and lead from above, he felt as if he were choking. He and others rushed for the mouth of the gorge, but the wary Santa Anna had closed it with a great body of lancers, who were now advancing to assist in the complete destruction of the Americans.

The defenders reeled back, and Santa Anna, thinking the time had come to deliver the final blow, sent the Mexican infantry in thousands down the sides of the gorge, where they attacked with the bayonet the few hundreds that yet fought. Phil was quite sure that no hope was left. Before, at every critical moment there had always been a slender chance of some kind or other, but now he could see absolutely none. A million red motes danced before him, and he struck almost blindly with his clubbed rifle at a Mexican who was trying to bayonet him.

But from a point above, not yet taken by the Mexicans, the brave O’Brien and Thomas, as brave, were still firing their cannon and sending the shot and shell into the Mexican masses, where they were not mingled with the Americans. But they themselves were exposed to a deadly fire. One by one their gunners fell. They were compelled to fall back step by step. Not enough men were left to load and fire the pieces. Soon all the gunners were killed or wounded except O’Brien himself. Presently he, too, was wounded, and the guns were silent. Now, truly, it seemed that the last moment had come!

Phil, when he struck with his clubbed rifle, knew that he hit something, because the Mexican with the eager bayonet was no longer there. He saw Breakstone and Arenberg yet beside him, both wounded, but both erect and defiant. He saw Grayson a little distance away, still alive, and farther on a little group of Kentuckians and Illinoisans, fighting to the last. He had an instant’s vision of the whole awful gorge, filled with men driven on by the rage of battle, the dead and wounded strewed all about, the smoke hovering above like a roof, and the masses of Mexicans who completely encircled them now closing in for the final blow.

It was all a real panorama, passing in an instant, and then from above, and at a new point, came the crash of great guns, the shot and shell striking among the Mexicans, not among the Americans. Not even at this, the last crisis, when the battle seemed lost beyond redemption, had fortune, or rather courage and energy, failed. Bragg, coming on a run with his battery, suddenly opened at short range, and with awful effect, into the Mexican masses. In another minute Sherman arrived with his guns, and close behind, coming as fast as breath would allow, were infantry with the rifle, and, to make the surprise complete, Washington’s guns suddenly appeared on the right and began to sweep away the lancers who held the mouth of the gorge.

Never had fortune made a quicker and more complete change. The Mexicans who had suddenly trapped the Kentuckians and Illinoisans had been entrapped themselves with equal suddenness.

The fire now rose to the greatest height of the day. They had been fighting on the plateau, in the ravines, on the slopes, and through the pass for hours. Vast quantities of smoke still hung about and lay like a blanket against the side of the mountain. The sun was far down the western slope.

The Kentucky and Illinois men drew themselves into a close body near the upper end of the gorge. There they fired as fast as exhaustion would allow, but salvation was coming from above, and now they knew it. Closer and closer crept the American artillery. Heavier and heavier grew its fire. The riflemen, also, sent in the bullets like hail. Taylor himself, a half dozen bullets through his clothing, stood on the brink directing the attack. The gorge where the Mexicans stood was swept by a storm of death. Santa Anna, from the other side, watched in dismay. Lancers and infantry alike, unable to stand such a sleet, rushed for the mouth of the gorge. Few of the lancers, who made the larger target, escaped, and the infantry suffered almost as much.

The gorge was cleared, and the Americans held the plateau. Everywhere the Mexicans fell back, leaving the whole field in possession of the little force that had fought so long and so fiercely to hold it. The Mexican bugle sounded again, but now it was the command to retire. The sun dipped down behind the mountains, and the shadows began to gather in the Pass of Angostura. The impossible had happened. Mexico’s finest army, five to one, led by her greatest general, had broken in vain against the farmer lads of the South and West, and the little band of regulars. The victory was won over the greatest odds ever faced by Americans in a pitched battle.

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