“Lord, Captain! you may do what you will with the rifle; and if ever we get out of the reach of these infernal devils, Hercules shall be—.”
At this moment a cheer came from the guerilleros, and a voice was heard shouting above the din:
“La metralla! la metralla!” (The howitzer!)
I leaped upon the roof, and looked out upon the plain. It was true. A howitzer-carriage, drawn by mules, was debouching from the woods, the animals dragging it along at a gallop.
It was evidently a piece of some size, large enough to tear the light picketing that screened us to atoms.
I turned towards my men with a look of despair. My eye at this moment rested on the drove of mules that stood crowded together in a corner of the pen. A sudden thought struck me. Might we not mount them and escape? There were more than enough to carry us all, and the rancho was filled with bridles and ropes. I instantly leaped from the roof, and gave orders to the men.
“Speedily, but without noise!” cried I, as the soldiers proceeded to fling bridles upon the necks of the animals.
In five minutes each man, with his rifle slung, stood by a mule, some of them having buckled on tapadas, to prevent the animals from kicking.
The major stood ready by his horse.
“Now, my brave fellows,” shouted I in a loud voice, “we must take it cavalry fashion—Mexican cavalry, I mean.” The men laughed. “Once in the woods, we shall retreat no farther. At the words ‘Mount and follow’, spring to your seats and follow Mr Clayley. I shall look to your rear—don’t stop to fire—hold on well. If anyone fall, let his nearest comrade take him up. Ha! anyone hurt there?” A shot had whistled through the ranks. “Only a scratch,” was the reply.