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

by Joseph A. Altsheler

The side of the gorge was so steep that Phil slipped and rolled to the bottom. But he quickly sprang up, unconscious of his bruises. Breakstone and Arenberg, with pale faces, were at his side. The gorge was not as much of a shelter and defense as it had seemed. It was instead a trap, the worst into which they had come that day. From the cliffs on both sides of the gorge the Mexicans sent down a continuous rain of bullets and shell. Santa Anna, exulting in his success, urged them on and, his seconds, Ampudia, Pacheco, Lombardini and the others, ran from point to point, encouraging their troops and crying that the battle was now won.

The Americans fired upward at their enemies, but they were pressed together in great confusion. Men and officers went down so fast that it looked to Phil like hay falling before the scythe. Here fell the brave Colonel Clay, the son of the great Henry Clay, and with him McKee and Hardin and many other gallant sons of Kentucky and Illinois.

A great horror seized Phil. Penned in that awful gorge, with that continuous shower of steel and lead from above, he felt as if he were choking. He and others rushed for the mouth of the gorge, but the wary Santa Anna had closed it with a great body of lancers, who were now advancing to assist in the complete destruction of the Americans.

The defenders reeled back, and Santa Anna, thinking the time had come to deliver the final blow, sent the Mexican infantry in thousands down the sides of the gorge, where they attacked with the bayonet the few hundreds that yet fought. Phil was quite sure that no hope was left. Before, at every critical moment there had always been a slender chance of some kind or other, but now he could see absolutely none. A million red motes danced before him, and he struck almost blindly with his clubbed rifle at a Mexican who was trying to bayonet him.

But from a point above, not yet taken by the Mexicans, the brave O'Brien and Thomas, as brave, were still firing their cannon and sending the shot and shell into the Mexican masses, where they were not mingled with the Americans. But they themselves were exposed to a deadly fire. One by one their gunners fell. They were compelled to fall back step by step. Not enough men were left to load and fire the pieces. Soon all the gunners were killed or wounded except O'Brien himself. Presently he, too, was wounded, and the guns were silent. Now, truly, it seemed that the last moment had come!

Phil, when he struck with his clubbed rifle, knew that he hit something, because the Mexican with the eager bayonet was no longer there. He saw Breakstone and Arenberg yet beside him, both wounded, but both erect and defiant. He saw Grayson a little distance away, still alive, and farther on a little group of Kentuckians and Illinoisans, fighting to the last. He had an instant's vision of the whole awful gorge, filled with men driven on by the rage of battle, the dead and wounded strewed all about, the smoke hovering above like a roof, and the masses of Mexicans who completely encircled them now closing in for the final blow.

It was all a real panorama, passing in an instant, and then from above, and at a new point, came the crash of great guns, the shot and shell striking among the Mexicans, not among the Americans. Not even at this, the last crisis, when the battle seemed lost beyond redemption, had fortune, or rather courage and energy, failed. Bragg, coming on a run with his battery, suddenly opened at short range, and with awful effect, into the Mexican masses. In another minute Sherman arrived with his guns, and close behind, coming as fast as breath would allow, were infantry with the rifle, and, to make the surprise complete, Washington's guns suddenly appeared on the right and began to sweep away the lancers who held the mouth of the gorge.

Never had fortune made a quicker and more complete change. The Mexicans who had suddenly trapped the Kentuckians and Illinoisans had been entrapped themselves with equal suddenness.

The fire now rose to the greatest height of the day. They had been fighting on the plateau, in the ravines, on the slopes, and through the pass for hours. Vast quantities of smoke still hung about and lay like a blanket against the side of the mountain. The sun was far down the western slope.

The Kentucky and Illinois men drew themselves into a close body near the upper end of the gorge. There they fired as fast as exhaustion would allow, but salvation was coming from above, and now they knew it. Closer and closer crept the American artillery. Heavier and heavier grew its fire. The riflemen, also, sent in the bullets like hail. Taylor himself, a half dozen bullets through his clothing, stood on the brink directing the attack. The gorge where the Mexicans stood was swept by a storm of death. Santa Anna, from the other side, watched in dismay. Lancers and infantry alike, unable to stand such a sleet, rushed for the mouth of the gorge. Few of the lancers, who made the larger target, escaped, and the infantry suffered almost as much.