Now the company was in opened ranks. The lieutenants and the first sergeant quickly passed behind, examining the cartridge boxes to see that all were filled.
“Fix—bayonets!”
“Close order—march!”
To the color had been sounded.
“By the right flank—right face—forward—march!” And Company B marched to its position at the head of the Fourth Regiment, for it was the color company.
Jerry followed. He had no idea of being left behind; he determined to keep his eyes upon Lieutenant Grant, and he paid no attention to the whereabouts of Pompey.
General Worth, stately and handsome, his black eyes flashing, was sitting his horse. Colonel Garland, of the First Brigade, issued sharp orders, which were repeated by the galloping brigade adjutant to the regimental commanders, and by them to the company officers. The gunfire among the hills had waxed tremendous. The General Pillow brigade of Volunteers was about to move.
General Worth lifted his sword—his orders had meant “Forward!” The companies broke into platoons and away they tramped, at quick step, in long column again, the fifes and drums playing merrily. The Pillow brigade was coming. Those Pennsylvanians and Tennesseeans had been directed to storm Telegraph Hill from in front, if possible; they had several batteries to carry, first. No pleasant job, that; and all as a feint to hold the Mexicans occupied on the roadside.
The First Division branched to the right, and into the brush through which the pioneers had hacked a rough trail. The faces of the soldiers were stern; some white, some red, with excitement. The battle clamor arose so loud that the drums and fifes could scarcely be heard. A dense cloud of smoke covered the hills before. Were those cheers, mingled with the bellowing of cannon and the roll of muskets? From whom—the Mexicans or the blue-coats? Jerry stumbled as he half ran, trying to stay close to Lieutenant Grant.
The trail was cumbered with tree trunks and rocks and cactus. After a time the Fourth Regiment rounded the base of a hill, and emerged at a ravine running crosswise, at the very foot of Telegraph Hill itself. Upon the top of the first hill cannon were thundering. And look! The hither slope of the other hill was alive with men, toiling up in ragged lines, following the colors. They were blue-coats—Regulars! The standard of the Mounted Rifles waved on the left, in the ravine. The Mexican batteries and entrenchments were shooting down upon the storming columns, the Rifles were deploying and facing a charge upon the stormers’ flank; and from the top of the first hill the twenty-four-pounders were pouring grape and ball across, into the higher hill, El Telegrapho.