There was nothing romantic about old Zachary Taylor. He had neither youth nor distinction of appearance. He was lined and seamed by forty years of service, mostly in the backwoods, and the white hair was thick around his temples. Nor was anything splendid about his uniform. It was dusty and stained by time and use. But within that rugged old frame beat the heart of a lion. He had not retreated when he heard the rumors that Santa Anna was coming, and he would not retreat now that Santa Anna was here with five to his one. Perhaps he recognized that in his sixty-two years of life his one moment for greatness had come, and he would make the most of it for himself and his country.
Long the general sat there on his horse, looking down into the plain, and the more important officers clustered in a group a short distance behind him. The brightness of the day increased. It seemed bound to make itself worthy of the great anniversary. The colors of the sunlight shifted and changed on the ridges and peaks, and the thin, luminous air seemed to bring Santa Anna's army nearer. A breeze sprang up presently, and it felt crisp and fresh on the faces of the soldiers. It also blew out the folds of a large and beautiful American flag, which had been hoisted on one of the promontories, and as the fluttering and vivid colors glowed in the sun's rays, a cry of defiance, not loud, but suppressed and rolling, passed through the army.
"Santa Anna will not come to any picnic," said Bill Breakstone.
"He means much harm, and he will suffer much," said Arenberg.
"Our army is not frightened," said Breakstone. "I have been among the troops, and they are cheerful, even confident."
Phil saw that the officers had been watching something intently with their glasses, and now he was able to see it himself with the naked eye.
"A messenger with a white flag is coming from Santa Anna," he announced. "Now what can he want?"
"He can want only one thing," said Breakstone; "but we'll wait and let him tell it himself."
The herald, holding his white flag aloft, rode straight toward the American army. When within three hundred yards of the American line he was met by skirmishers, who brought him forward.
"Don't you see something familiar in that figure and face, Phil?" asked Bill Breakstone.