Lieutenant Dickinson and his cannon and cannoneers were in the centre. The cavalry, fifty in number, were placed at front, to cover the cannon—Ernest and Jim sticking together, touching knees in the fog. On either side of the cannon were the infantry, in two columns; and skirmishers mounted and unmounted extended on the flanks to right and left. The Reverend Mr. Smith rode before, with Colonel Moore and staff.
“Looks like we were going to surprise ’em,” whispered Jim, as the march proceeded almost in silence, for even the cannon wheels were muffled by the damp ground.
“Must be getting near to Williams’s melon patch,” whispered back Ernest.
“Bang!”
That was a musket, sounding dully in the dense white mist. Some of the skirmishers had run into a Mexican picket.
“Pop! Pop-pop!” cracked rifles.
Not far ahead lilted the high notes of a trumpet. The Mexican camp! Back from Colonel Moore raced an aide, shouting orders; and the company officers galloped to carry them out.
“Column, by the right flank! March!” bawled Ernest’s commander.
“Hooray!” cheered Jim, as bending in their saddles they all swerved and raced across the front. “Get out of the way of that cannon, you!”