Slosh, slosh, slide and stumble, in the downpour and the blackness.
“Close up, men! Close up! Keep in touch.”
After what seemed to be a long, long time they were trudging heavily through silent San Augustine, south of the lava field. Except for cavalry pickets, it appeared to be deserted. The reserve there—the Marines and Second Pennsylvania—had gone. General Scott of course had gone. All the infantry and artillery were being gathered at Contreras for a decisive fight.
Slosh, slosh, slide and stumble and grumble. After another long time the darkness began to thin. Pretty soon the column might see the muddy road and the outskirts. The clouds were breaking over the mountains in the south and the lava field in the north. The road was thickly marked by footprints and by furrows filled with water, where the artillery wheels had cut deeply.
The way veered sharply north into the lava field, amidst curious ashy cones high with flat tops as if they had burst open; the brush had been hacked down and leveled and crushed. General Worth and staff spurred ahead. The sun was reddening the east. Jerry could see the men’s faces, pinched and dirty, white and unshaven. The ranks were panting—their shoes clogged with mud, their uniforms drenched and smeared, their guns and knapsacks dripping. How far were Contreras and the Mexican army now? A fight would be warming, if nothing else. Any instant a halt might be ordered to recharge the muskets and get ready.
Hark! The fresh morning air was set atremble by another roll of cannon and musketry fire. Smoke arose before, maybe two miles distant in the northwest. The battle had opened again; the men strained forward. Adjutant Nichols galloped back along the ranks.
“Hurry, men! At the double! Sound the double, there, drum major! Come, come, men! Double time—march!”
Colonel Garland had turned and shouted and waved his sword. Jerry essayed to join in beating double time. The men tried to respond. They surged into a shambling trot, but they could not keep it up on the slippery road, carrying their soaked clothes and knapsacks, their muskets and mud-laden shoes.
They grunted and panted and wheezed and stumbled. The firing had increased under the smoke cloud. It continued furiously for about a quarter of an hour, while the First Brigade toiled at its best and the officers urged. Then the battle tumult died almost as quickly as it had been born; and there were cheers, instead, not the shrill “Vivas” of the Mexicans, but the hearty “Huzzahs” from American throats.
“Hurrah, boys! The works are taken. Hear that? It’s victory!”