They left the camp; trudged fast until they approached the edge of the dunes, toward the city, crossed a shallow trench or road that wound along, and climbing to the top of a sand hill were in view of the plain and the Mexican batteries. A number of soldiers were here, watching. They had dug little hollows, as a protection from shell fragments.
The firing had increased. The city and the castle of San Ulloa were shrouded in the dense smoke; the plain was spouting earth and brush, but it was spouting smoke and shot and shell also, for American batteries were replying. And the entrenched line of blue-coats, supporting the artillery, might be glimpsed.
“Those dons are trying to find our guns,” asserted Hannibal. “That plain is full of trenches. Golly, but it was a job to dig them. We Regulars, and the Mohawks, too, had to work by night, in shifts; and we got jolly well peppered, you bet. We didn’t dare use lanterns; worked by the feel, in the cactus and brush, and the northers near smothered us, besides. We were marched out after dark, and every man grabbed a spade and his orders were to dig a hole eight feet long and five feet wide and six feet deep. When the holes were connected they made a ditch all ’round the city, five miles not counting the sand-bags and parapets and battery emplacements and caves for magazines. Then we and the sailors dragged the guns clear from the beach, three miles and more, through the sand and swamps. We haven’t guns enough yet. Only sixteen out of about sixty that the general expected. The most of ’em are ten-inch mortars, and they’re no good for breaching walls. The castle’s firing thirteen-inch shells at us—sockdologers! But the navy’s helping the army with three six-inch solid-shot guns and three eight-inch Paixhan shell guns, for direct fire into the walls. Wait till that Battery Five opens. It’s point-blank range of the walls on this side.”
“Is the army all ’round the city?”
“Yes, siree, boy. The First Division has the right of line, starting at the beach. That’s ours. Patterson’s Third Division Mohawks have the center. They’re the Voluntarios. Twigg’s Regulars of the Second Division have the left, reaching to the beach on the other side of the city. We’ve got the Mexicanos cooped up. They can’t sneak out.”
It was a great sight—those bursting shells and those bounding solid shot, some of which ricochetted to the dunes and rolled hither thither. Now and then shell fragments flew past, and an occasional long-range shell burst behind. The soldiers appeared to enjoy the view. They seemed to know what was coming; they all had been under fire before, and every few moments a shot or shell might be seen sailing above the smoke.
“Look out, boys! There’s a bomb—a thirteen-inch, from the castle!”
“Here comes a solid shot. Lie low.”
“There’s an eight-inch, again.”
Suddenly a lull occurred in the shouts and jokes. The men stiffened as they lay poking their heads up. A brilliant group of officers were riding along the shallow trench or road at the inside base of the sand hill parapets. The foremost was a very large man, broad shouldered and erect and towering high upon his horse. He had a square, stern, wrinkled face, smooth shaven except for grey side-whiskers of regulation trim; wore a plumed chapeau upon his grey hair, full uniform of dark blue, with gold buttons in a double row down the front, heavy gold epaulets on the shoulders, and broad gold braid following his trousers seams. A sword in engraved scabbard hung at his left side; his left arm was curiously crooked. A splendid horse bore him proudly.