General Pillow on his horse pushed to the fore. The Mexican skirmishers and the infantry from the ditch could be glimpsed, scurrying out of the timber for shelter higher up. The howitzers were coming—they tore through, horses tugging, cannoneers shoving, and from above the Mexican guns were throwing grape and shell down the hill into the wood. The boughs of the trees cracked and slithered; the twigs flew.
The storming column, laden with the ladders and fascines and tools, did not move as rapidly as the light riflemen. Jerry, excited to his finger tips, scarcely knew what he was doing, but he wished to get out of that awful mess of falling trees and blinding smoke. Soon he found himself up with the Voltigeurs, as they emerged into the rock-strewn open at the farther edge of the wood.
Now there was a redoubt or system of fortified entrenchments halfway on to the castle. That it was which was pouring out the canister and shell to sweep the slope below it. General Pillow’s horse reared and turned, while the general tried to control it and shout his orders. The Voltigeurs, leaping from boulder to boulder, taking what shelter they could get, left a wake of dead and disabled. This fire from above was fearful—a constant stream of lead and iron. Was the attack to be stopped? Where were the stormers and the two regiments of infantry? Toiling up as fast as they could.
General Pillow toppled free from his horse, which bolted. Jerry reached him where he had half set up bleeding from a grape shot through his chest, and supported by an aide.
“The reserve, quick!” he gasped. “Where’s Worth’s aide? Tell him to have Worth bring up his whole division and make great haste or he’ll be too late.”
The group scattered. Jerry, legging recklessly, as luck would have it met Lieutenant Wood, General Worth’s aide, galloping in.
“Lieutenant Wood! Here, sir. General Pillow asks help. The whole division, sir. Quick!”
“Did he say so?” demanded Lieutenant Wood, reining short.
“Yes, sir. He’s wounded.”