"Yes."

"Good, because the chance is gone now. Hark, there go our cannon!

Look, how the b.a.l.l.s are smashing into them!"

The American battery opened at a range of only two hundred yards, and the b.a.l.l.s and sh.e.l.ls 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 sh.e.l.l. 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 ma.s.ses that seemed irresistible. The lancers had recovered themselves and were slaying the fugitives, while the Mexican cannon also hailed shot and sh.e.l.l 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 ma.s.ses. 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 ma.s.ses. 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 pa.s.sing 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 sh.e.l.l 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 ma.s.s. 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 d.i.c.k 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 pa.s.s. The third column of Mexicans had just come within range of Washington's guns, and the gunners, restrained hitherto, were pouring shot and sh.e.l.l, grape and canister, as fast as they could fire, into the Mexican ma.s.s. 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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sing 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 an 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 pa.s.s, 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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed, 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 ma.s.sive and formidable as ever.

"Load, Phil, load!" whispered Bill Breakstone. "See, they're coming again!"

Ma.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed 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 hors.e.m.e.n. 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 hoofbeats of the hors.e.m.e.n 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."