"It's not just five to one. It's eight to one," muttered Bill Breakstone, as he looked at the long and deep columns which they were so soon to meet.
Phil felt his muscles quivering again, while a red light danced before his eyes. But it was not fear. The time for that had passed. The Kentuckians in the front rank kneeled down, with their hands on the triggers of their rifles. Clouds of dust and smoke floated over them and stung their eyes, and the deepening roar of the battle swelled from right and left. Phil knew that this great force of Mexicans was coming forward to crush them in order that another large division might pass along the plateau and flank the American army. He was good enough soldier to know that if they succeeded the trap would indeed close down so firmly upon the defenders that they could not burst from it.
The boy never took his eyes from the advancing Mexican column. He saw, or thought he saw, the dark faces, the glowing eyes, and he was quite sure that he heard the heavy tread of the approaching thousands. Some one gave the order to fire, and, with a mechanical impulse, he pulled the trigger. All the Kentuckians fired together, aiming with their usual coolness and precision, and the front rank of the Mexican advance was blown away. The Mexicans wavered, the Americans reloaded and fired again with the same deadly precision, and then from their right came the flash of cannon fire, sending the shells and heavy balls into the thick ranks of Ampudia's men. The hesitation of the Mexicans turned into retreat, and, hurrying back, they sought refuge along the slopes of the mountains, while the Kentuckians uttered a derisive shout.
"Draw an extra breath or two, Phil," said Bill Breakstone, "because you won't have another chance for some time. We've driven back the flank, but the main army of the Mexicans will be on us in a few minutes."
Phil did as he was bid. He was glad to see those Mexicans gone from their front, and, for the moment at least, he felt the thrill of victory. Yet, while there was rest for him, at that instant the battle was going on all about him. He seemed to hear somewhere the distant notes of a band playing, cheering the soldiers on to death. Now and then came the call of a bugle, shrill and piercing, and the rifles crashed incessantly. The air quivered with the roar of the cannon, and the echoes came rolling back from the gorges.
Now that he was really in the great battle, Phil felt an abnormal calmness. His heart ceased to beat so fast, and his blood cooled a little. He saw that the main army of the Mexicans was advancing in three columns. Two of these columns, one under Lombardini, and the other under Pacheco, came straight toward the little plateau by the side of the pass, upon which most of the American army now stood. The front of each column was a mass of lancers, and rumbling batteries of twelve-pounders came behind. The third column advanced toward the pass.
It was now about nine o'clock in the morning. General Taylor had not yet arrived from Saltillo, but General Wool, his second, had thrown the whole American force in a line across the plateau and the pass, where, less than forty-five hundred in number, it awaited the full impact of twenty thousand Mexican troops. The moment was more than critical. It was terrible. It required stout hearts among the young volunteers, not trained regulars at all, as they watched the Mexican masses heave forward. Lucky it was for them that they had been born in new countries, where every boy, as a matter of course, learned the use of the rifle. And it was lucky, too, that the battery of O'Brien, a most daring and skillful officer, was on their flank to help them.
"Have you drawn those easy breaths yet, Phil?" asked Breakstone.
"Yes."
"Good, because the chance is gone now. Hark, there go our cannon! Look, how the balls are smashing into them!"