The piping of the flute and the booms of the Twin Sisters alike were drowned by that tremendous yell. The line broke into a run. It was now not 100 yards from the Mexican breastworks—General Houston leading the centre. The Twin Sisters could not fire again, for the gap had closed before them, as the Millard musketeers and the Burleson riflemen joined flanks.
Bugles had sounded from the Mexican camp—all appeared in turmoil there; but suddenly a bloom of white smoke enveloped the front of the breastworks, and a volley of musketry and cannon shot crashed through the soft air. Bullets whined by, overhead. Ernest’s eyes leaped to the Texan line again. It had not fallen—it was surging on—the general sat upright—but his horse staggered—no, kept its feet. Was it hit? Why didn’t the army shoot? Ah—the line had abruptly halted, with the Mexican breastworks only sixty yards away; the rifles and muskets were levelled, and veiled in smoke. Back to the breastworks reeled the first Mexican soldiery. It looked as if every bullet had found a mark. See! The line did not wait even to reload. It raced on, shouting, “Remember the Alamo! Remember Travis! Remember Fannin!” What a medley of savage cheers! The men had drawn their pistols; they had reversed their rifles, to club with them. General Houston’s horse was swallowed up—maybe it was down—as right against the breastworks burst the line—burst, breaker-like, into a high spray of pistol and musket shots, lunging knives and bayonets, rifle butts rising and falling, horses leaping—and poured over!
Back from the breastworks, into the swamp at the rear, streamed rivulets of fleeing men—the Mexican soldiers. But the Texans were after them. There went Deaf Smith, on foot, alone—he had lost his horse, but no matter. He was shooting with a gun—shooting at the Mexicans. Some of the Mexicans were in the swamp to their knees. The officers’ horses had bogged. From the timber at the east end of the breastworks scampered the Mexicans posted there, with Colonel Sherman’s riflemen pursuing furiously. A Mexican officer remained standing on the ammunition boxes behind the field piece. He shouted in vain to his artillerymen. He folded his arms defiantly; then he got down and slowly walked away, as if challenging the Texan rifles. He was a brave man, but it was no use. He fell, crumpled.
But a battalion of the Mexicans did rally. They levelled their bayonets and charged, behind the breastworks; charged so violently that the Texans before them wavered and recoiled. Here came General Houston—on his horse, waving his hat. The Texans there stiffened, the guns spoke all together—and away melted the Mexicans, into dead, wounded and fleeing.
Somewhere in that hurly-burly were Sion and Leo. There did not seem to be many Texans killed yet. But where was the cavalry? There it was, chasing the Mexican horse and foot, cutting off their retreat to the west, turning them back toward the swamp and bay, shooting them, driving them. The reports of guns had died to irregular spatters; the fighting appeared to be a constant series of hand-to-hand combats—and not even that. Many of the Mexican soldiers were kneeling, holding up their arms for mercy. Henry Karnes was spurring hard in pursuit of a Mexican officer on a big black horse. The officer was fleeing westward, across the prairie. Would Henry catch him and kill him? Were all the Mexicans to be killed?
Ernest sickened and tried to turn away from the sights. At that moment he heard a heavy panting, and a rustling in the long grass. Down he instantly sank; his eyes fell at last on his little rifle, and reaching out he grabbed it.
The rustling and the panting rapidly came nearer—and a black head and swarthy face appeared, over the grass tops; a running figure in a blue cotton uniform was breaking a way. It was a Mexican soldier, his bared hair dank with perspiration and dark face staring, affrighted.
Ernest silently crouched low, waiting; and as the figure was about to pass, up he sprang, and over his levelled rifle bade, as sternly as he could: “Halt!”
The soldier stopped in his tracks—saw the rifle muzzle, his mouth, open with exhaustion, quivering convulsively—and down he dropped on his knees.
“Me no Alamo! Me no Alamo!” he chattered, holding out his empty hands with piteous entreaty.