“Sure, I’m saving ’em for you, lieutenant,” he reported.
They were a fat Mexican major and several subalterns, with full a dozen privates; and they were quite ready to surrender, for at sight of Lieutenant Grant’s drawn sword they unbuckled their belts and dropped their guns.
“The fortunes of war, señor,” the major said in good English, shrugging his shoulders. “We fight like men, but you Americans fight like demons.”
“Very good, sir,” the lieutenant answered shortly, stacking the scabbards in his arms. “Crack those muskets over the edge of the wall, lads, and conduct these prisoners to the proper guard.”
He himself lingered a minute upon the roof. Jerry breathlessly waited. The mill had been taken. There were only a few scattered shots among the buildings, as the soldiers below or ranging the roofs jumped Mexican skulkers from hiding places; but to the west the battle was still raging furiously. From the roof-top a good view might be had.
The trenches connecting with the Casa-Mata had been seized; their cannon were being used to quicken the rout hastening into the wooded west slope of Chapultepec. All the Casa-Mata, however, was aflame with rapid discharges, and the Second Brigade was recoiling in confusion from before it. The Casa-Mata turned out to be a solid stone structure, built like a fort, housing cannon and infantry, and surrounded by ditches and breastworks.
Lieutenant Grant chanced to mark Jerry, standing behind him.
“They’re being cut to pieces,” he exclaimed. “General Worth, and Scott, too, have been deceived. We should have attacked in greater force.”
The Second Brigade was in the open—could not penetrate past the ditches and to the Casa-Mata walls. The field was blue with bodies. Where was Duncan’s battery? Then a sharp word from the lieutenant, who had leveled his spy-glass, drew Jerry’s eyes also to the northwest at very end of line.