"Time for us to be doing something," said Breakstone, and at that moment the order came. The Kentuckians, also, retreated, turning, as fast as they reloaded, to fire a volley, aiming particularly at the lancers, whose weapons were so terrible at close quarters. Phil looked more than once through all the fire and smoke for de Armijo, but he didn't see him until the battle was a full hour old. Then it was only a passing glimpse, and he knew that his shot had missed--he had fired without remorse, as he now regarded de Armijo as so much venom. After the single shot the columns of smoke floated in between, and he saw him no more.
Phil knew that the battle was at a most critical stage, that it was even worse, that all the chances now favored the Mexicans. An inexperienced boy even could not doubt it. The charge of the lancers had driven back a small detachment of mounted volunteers, the American riflemen posted on the slopes of the mountain were forced out of their positions, and the great columns of infantry were still pressing on the left, cutting their way to the rear of the army.
It seemed to Phil that they were completely surrounded, and, in fact, they nearly were, but the men of Illinois and Kentucky redoubled their efforts. The barrels of their rifles grew hot with so much firing. The mingled reek of dust and sweat, of smoke and burned gunpowder, stung their nostrils and filled their eyes, half blinding them. The shell and grape and bullets of the Mexicans now reached the Kentuckians, too. Phil, as the smoke lifted now and then, saw many a comrade go down. He, Arenberg, and Breakstone were all wounded slightly, though they were not conscious then of their hurts.
Worse came. The great enclosing circle of the Mexicans drove them into a mass. The regiment that had broken in panic could not yet be rallied, although their officers strove like brave men to get them back in line, and, like brave men, died trying. Phil saw officers falling all around him, although Middleton was still erect, sword in hand, encouraging the men to fight on.
"It can't be that we are beaten! It can't be!" cried the boy in despair.
"No," said Breakstone, "it's not a beating, but it's a darned fine imitation. Come on, boys! Come on, all of you! We'll drive them back yet!"
Phil felt some one strike against him in the smoke. It was Dick Grayson, of Paris.
"Looks hot, Phil!" said that ingenuous youth. There was a tremendous discharge of artillery, and Grayson went down. But he promptly sprang up.
"It is hot," he shouted, "hotter than I thought. But I'm not hurt. It was only the wind from a cannon-ball. Look out, here come the lancers again, and our rifles are unloaded!"
The long glittering line of lancers appeared through the smoke, and Phil thought that their day was done. It seemed to him that he could not resist any more, but, at that moment a mighty crash of artillery came from the pass. The third column of Mexicans had just come within range of Washington's guns, and the gunners, restrained hitherto, were pouring shot and shell, grape and canister, as fast as they could fire, into the Mexican mass. The column was hurled back by the sudden and terrific impact, and, breaking, it fled in a panic. The Mexicans on the plateau were affected by the flight of their comrades, and they, too, lancers and all, wavered. The Illinois troops came pouring back. With them were more Kentuckians and Bragg's battery, and then Sherman's battery, too. Never were cannon better served than were the American guns on that day. When the guns began to thunder in front of them and between them and the enemy, the fugitives were rallied and were brought back into the battle.