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 sh.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed, 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, ma.s.sed 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 ma.s.s of Mexicans pressed against the mountain, and he loaded and fired with a zeal and rapidity not inferior to that of anybody.

The Mexican ma.s.s 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 sh.e.l.l 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 ma.s.s 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 sh.e.l.l. 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 a.s.sist 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 sh.e.l.l into the Mexican ma.s.ses, 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 ma.s.ses of Mexicans who completely encircled them now closing in for the final blow.

It was all a real panorama, pa.s.sing in an instant, and then from above, and at a new point, came the crash of great guns, the shot and sh.e.l.l 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 ma.s.ses. 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 pa.s.s for hours. Vast quant.i.ties 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 Pa.s.s 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.

CHAPTER XV

THE WOMAN AT THE WELL

Phil was still in a daze. He and those around him, exhausted by such long and desperate efforts, such a continuous roar in their ears, and such a variation of intense emotions from the highest to the lowest, were scarcely conscious that the battle was over. They knew, indeed, that night was falling on the mountains and the pa.s.s, that the Mexicans had withdrawn from the field, that their flags and lances were fading in the twilight, but it was all, for a little while, dim and vague to them.

The night and the silence coming together contained a great awe. Phil felt the blood pounding in his ears, and he looked around with wonder.

It was Breakstone who first came to himself.

"We've won! We've won!" he cried. "As sure as there is a sun behind those mountains, we've beat all Mexico!"

Then Phil, too, saw, and he had to believe.

"The victory is ours!" he cried.

"It is ours, but harm has been done," said Arenberg in a low voice.

Then he sank forward softly on his face. Phil and Breakstone quickly raised him up. He had fainted from loss of blood, but as his wounds were only of the flesh he was soon revived. Breakstone had three slight wounds of his own, and these were bound up, also. Phil, meanwhile, was hunting in the gorge for other friends. Grayson was alive and well, but some that he had known were gone. He was weak, mind and body alike, with the relaxation from the long battle and all those terrible emotions, but he helped with the wounded. Below them lay the army of Santa Anna, its lights shining again in the darkness, and, for all Phil knew, it might attack again on the morrow, but he gave little attention to it now. His whole concern was for his comrades. The victory had been won, but they had been compelled to purchase it at a great price.

The losses were heavy. Twenty-eight officers of rank were among the killed, regiments were decimated, and even the unhurt were so exhausted that they could scarcely stand.

Phil sat down at the edge of the gorge. He was yet faint and dizzy. It seemed to him that he would never be able to exert himself again.

Everything swam before him in a sort of confused glare. He was conscious that his clothing was stained red in two or three places, but when he looked, in a mechanical way, at the wounds, he saw they were scratches, closed already by the processes of nature. Then his attention wandered again to the field. He was full of the joy of victory, but it was a vague, uncertain feeling, not attaching itself to any particular thing.

The twilight had already sunk into the night, and the black wind, heavy with chill, moaned in the Pa.s.s of Angostura. It was a veritable dirge for the dead. Phil felt it all through his relaxed frame, and shivered both with cold and with awe. Smoke and vapor from so much firing still floated about the plateau, the pa.s.s, and the slopes, but there was a burning touch on his face which he knew did not come from any of them.

It was the dust of the desert again stinging him after the battle as it had done before it. He obeyed its call, summoned anew all his strength, both of body and mind, and climbed out of the gorge, where friend and foe still lay in hundreds, mingled and peaceful in death.

He found more light and cheer on the plateau and in the pa.s.s. Here the unhurt and those hurt slightly were building fires, and they had begun to cook food and boil coffee. Phil suddenly perceived that he was hungry. He had not tasted food since morning. He joined one of the groups, ate and drank, and more vigor returned. Then he thought of the horse which he had left tethered in an alcove, and which he had not used at all that day. The horse was there unharmed, although a large cannon-ball lay near his feet. It was evidently a spent ball which had rolled down the side of the mountain, as it was not buried at all.

The horse recognized Phil and neighed. Phil put his hand upon his mane and stroked it. He was very glad that this comrade of his had escaped unhurt. He wondered in a dim way what his terror must have been tied in one place, while the battle raged all day about him. "Poor old horse,"

he said, stroking his mane again. Then he led him away, gave him food and water, and returned to his comrades and the field. He knew that his duty lay there, as the Mexican army was still at hand. Many thought that it would attack again in the morning, and disposition for defense must be made. He did not see either Breakstone or Arenberg, but he met Middleton, to whom he reported.

"Scout down at the mouth of the pa.s.s and along the mountain slopes, Phil," he said, and the boy, replenishing his ammunition, obeyed. It was not quite dark, and the wind was exceedingly cold. The mercury that night went below the freezing point, and the sufferings of the wounded were intense. Phil kept well among the ravines and crags. He believed that the Mexican lancers would be prowling in front of their camp, and he would not have much chance if he were attacked by a group of them.

Moreover, he was tired of fighting. He did not wish to hurt anybody.

Never had his soul inclined more fervently to peace.

He pa.s.sed again into the gorge which had witnessed the climax and deadliest part of the battle. Here he saw dark-robed figures pa.s.sing back and forth among the wounded. He looked more closely and saw that they were Mexican nuns from a convent near Buena Vista, helping the wounded, Americans and Mexicans alike. Something rose in his throat, but he went on, crossing the pa.s.s and climbing the slopes of the Sierra Madre. Here there was yet smoke lingering in the nooks and crannies, but all the riflemen seemed to have gone.

He climbed higher. The wind there was very cold, but the moonlight was brighter. He saw the peaks and ridges of the Sierra Madre, like a confused sea, and he looked down upon the two camps, the small American one on the plateau and in the pa.s.s and the larger, still far larger, Mexican one below. He could trace it by the lights in the Mexican camp, forming a great half circle, and he would have given much to know what was going on there. If Santa Anna and his men possessed the courage and tenacity of the defenders, they would attack again on the morrow.

He moved forward a little to get a better view, and then sank down behind an outcropping of rock. A Mexican, a tall man, rifle on shoulder, was pa.s.sing. He, too, was looking down at the two camps, and Phil believed that he was a scout like himself. The Mexican, not suspecting the presence of an enemy, was only a dozen feet away, and Phil could easily have shot him without danger to himself, but every impulse was against the deed. He could not fire from ambush, and he had seen enough of death. The Mexican was going toward his own camp, and presently, he went on, disappearing behind a curve of the mountain, and leaving Phil without a shadow of remorse. But he soon followed, creeping on down the mountainside toward the camp of Santa Anna.

The rocks and gullies enabled him to come so near that he could see within the range of light. He beheld figures as they pa.s.sed now and then, dark shadows before the blaze, but the camp of Santa Anna did not show the life and animation that he had witnessed in it when he spied upon it once before. No bugles were blowing, no bodies of lancers, with the firelight shining on glittering steel, rode forth to prepare for the morrow and victory. Everything was slack and relaxed. He even saw men lying in hundreds upon the ground, fast asleep from exhaustion. As far as he could determine, no scouting parties of large size were abroad, and he inferred from what he saw that the Mexican army was worn out.

He could not go among those men, but the general effect produced upon him at the distance was of gloom and despair among them. An army preparing for battle in the morning would be awake and active. The longer he looked, the greater became his own hope and confidence, and then he slowly made his way back to his own camp with his report.

Lights still burned there, but it was very silent. After he pa.s.sed the ring of sentinels he saw nothing but men stretched out, almost as still as the dead around them. They slept deeply, heavily, a sleep so intense that a blow would not arouse. Many had lain down where they were standing when the battle ceased, and would lie there in dreamless slumber until the next morning. Phil stepped over them, and near one of the fires he saw Breakstone and Arenberg, each with his head on his arm, deep in slumber.

He made his report to Middleton, describing with vivid detail everything that he had seen.

"It agrees with the reports of the other scouts," said Middleton. "I think the enemy is so shattered that he cannot move upon us again, and now, Phil, you must rest. It will be midnight in an hour, and you have pa.s.sed through much."