The prudent nawab, who preferred looking at a tiger-hunt out of a two-storey window, or the spectator of a bull-fight in the upper tier of a “plaza de toros,” could not have been safer than I, since, without running the slightest risk, I had a “bird’s-eye view” of the battle.
I could see the steady advance of Worth’s division of regulars, supported by the fiery squadrons of Harney’s Horse; the brigade of Twiggs—that hoary-headed sexagenarian bavard, since distinguished as the “traitor of Texas;” the close-lined and magnificently-mounted troop of dragoons with horses of light grey, led by Phil Kearney—Kearney, the accomplished gentleman—the best cavalry officer America ever produced; the dashing, daring Phil Kearney, who, under my own eyes, lost his right arm in the garita of San Antonio de Abad; the lamented Phil. Kearney, since become a victim to the accursed Secesh rebellion, or rather to the mismanagement of that wooden-headed pretender whose stolid “strategy” ignorance still continues to mistake for genius—McClellan.
I saw them, one and all, regulars and volunteers, horse and foot, move at the “forward.” I saw them advance towards the hill “El Telegrafo.” I saw them mending their pace to the double-quick, and break into a run at the “charge!”
I could hear the charging signal and the cheer that succeeded it. I could see the base of the hill suddenly empurpled with smoke—a belt of conglomerate puffs rapidly merging into one another. I could perceive the opposing puffs upon the summit, growing thinner and thinner, as the blue mantle below caped gradually up towards the shoulder of the “cerro.”
Then the smoke upon the summit became dissolved into translucent vapour; the tricoloured Mexican flag flickered for a moment longer through its film, until, as if by some invisible hand, it was dragged down the staff; while at the same instant the banner of the stars and stripes swept out upon the breeze, announcing the termination of the battle of Cerro Gordo.
Story 1, Chapter II.
The Escape of El Cojo.
Despite the chagrin I felt at being literally hors de combat, I could not at this moment avoid surrendering myself to a feeling of exultation.