"I see the rascals," cried Dave pointing upward. "They're on the top of that building ahead."
Trent saw the sharpshooters, too. Perhaps twenty Mexican infantrymen occupied the roof of a building a few hundred yards ahead. Some were lying flat, showing only their heads at the edge of the roof. Others were kneeling, but all were firing industriously.
"Forward, a few steps at a time," ordered the lieutenant. "Don't waste any shots, men, but pot any sharpshooter you can get on that roof, or any men who show themselves on other roofs as we advance."
"This work is a lot better than getting into boats and trying to take Castle San Juan," muttered Dalzell, as he drew his sword. All three of the officers now had their blades in their hands, for the swords would be useful if they were obliged to fight at close quarters.
Crack! crack! crack! rang out the rifles of Trent's detachment. But every shot told. Whenever any one of the three officers saw a man firing too rapidly that seaman was cautioned against wasting cartridges.
One of Trent's men was already wounded in the left hand, though he still persisted in firing.
At the first street crossing Trent shouted:
"Half of you men go down the street on that side, the rest of you over here. Ensign Dalzell, take command over there. Ensign Darrin, you will command here."
The street was swiftly emptied of blue-jackets. Hidden from the fire of the sharpshooters ahead, the sailors were out of immediate danger. But both Dan and Dave stationed a couple of good shots at either corner, in the shelter of the buildings and took pot shots at the snipers ahead.
"Darrin, pick out two of your best men, and send them to lie down in the middle of the street, facing that roof-top," Trent ordered, then shouted the order across the open street to Dalzell.