The Quest of the Four: A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista

by Joseph A. Altsheler

"We can breathe again, Phil," cried Breakstone. "They haven't flanked us there, but I don't think we'll have time for more than two breaths."

The battle, just in front of them, paused for an instant or two, but it went on with undiminished fury elsewhere. While Phil let his heated rifle cool, he watched this terrible conflict at the mouth of the grim pass, a combat that swung to and fro and that refused to be decided in favor of either. But, as he rested, all his courage came back anew. The little army, the boy volunteers, had already achieved the impossible. For hours they had held off the best of the Mexican troops, five to their one. More than once they had been near to the verge, but nobody could say that they had been beaten.

Phil's feeling of awe came again, as he looked at the great stage picture, set with all the terrible effects of reality. The smoke rose always, banking up against the sides of the mountain, but dotted with red and pink spots, the flame from the rifles of the sharpshooters who lurked among the crags. From the mouth of the pass came a steady roaring where the cannon of Washington were fired so fast. The smoke banked up there, too, but it was split continually by the flash of the great guns. Out of the smoke came the unbroken crash of rifles, resembling, but on a much larger scale, the ripping of a heavy cloth. Now and then both sides shouted and cheered.

Bill Breakstone was a shrewd judge of a battle that day. The crisis had passed, but in a few minutes a new crisis came. For in their rear began another fierce conflict. Torrejon's splendid brigade of lancers made its way around the mountain and fell upon the small force of Arkansas and Kentucky volunteers under Yell and Marshall at the hacienda of Buena Vista. Yell was killed almost instantly, many other men went down, but the volunteers held fast. Some, their horses slain or wounded, reached the roofs of houses, and with their long rifles emptied saddle after saddle among the lancers. It was a confused and terrible struggle, but, in an instant or two, American dragoons came to the rescue. The lancers gave way and fled, bearing with them their leader, the brave Torrejon, who was wounded badly. Again the army was saved by courage and quick action. If Torrejon and his men had been able to hold Buena Vista, the American force would have been destroyed.

Phil knew nothing of the conflict at Buena Vista itself until the day was done, because he was soon in the very thickest of it again himself. He and his comrades stood among the decimated squares on the plateau, where the battle had shifted for a moment, and where the smoke was rising. Looking over the field, littered with men and horses, it seemed that half of his countrymen had fallen. Everywhere lay the dead, and the wounded crawled painfully to the rear. Yet the unhurt could give little aid to the hurt, because the Mexican battle front seemed as massive and formidable as ever.

"Load, Phil, load!" whispered Bill Breakstone. "See, they're coming again!"

Masses of lancers were gathering anew on the plateau, among them many of Torrejon's men, who had come back from the other side of the mountain, and the lifting smoke enabled Phil and his comrades to see them clearly. The defenders--they were not many now--were more closely packed. The men of the West and South were mingled together, but with desperate energy the officers soon drew them out in a line facing the lancers. Sherman with his cannon also joined them. In the shifting fortunes of the day, another critical moment came. If the charge of the lancers passed over their line, the Americans were beaten.

The battle elsewhere sank and died for the time. All looked toward the two forces on the plateau, the heavy squadrons of cavalry advancing, and the thin line of infantry silent and waiting. The Mexican bugles ceased to sound, and the firing stopped. Phil and the men with him in the front rank knelt again. Arenberg, as usual, was on one side of him, and Breakstone on the other. Middleton was not far away. Phil glanced up and down the American line and, as he saw how few they were, his heart, after a period of high courage, sank like a plummet in a pool. It did not seem possible to stop the horsemen. Then his courage rose again. They had done a half dozen wonders that day, they could do another half dozen.

It was one of the most vivid moments of Phil's life, fairly burnt into his soul. The smoke, lifting higher and higher, disclosed more and more of the field, with its dead and dying everywhere. The mountains were coming out of the mists and vapors, and showing their bare crags and peaks. There was no sound but the hoofbeats of the horsemen and an occasional cry from the wounded, but Phil did not even hear these. There was to him only an awful and ominous silence, as the heavy columns drew nearer and nearer and he saw the menacing faces and ready weapons. The blood quivered in his veins, but he did not give back. Nor did the others, most of whom were boys not much older than he.

"I think this will tell the tale," whispered Bill Breakstone. "Look how steady our lads are! Veteran regulars could not bear themselves better in the face of five to one."