“O heavens! Haller, we shall be too late. Gallop!” shouted Twing, as we pressed our horses side by side.
The troop at the word sprang into a gallop. El Plan, the bridge, the hamlet, the American camp with its thousand white pyramids, all burst upon us like a flash—below, far below, lying like a map. We are still opposite El Telegrafo!
“By heavens!” cried Twing, “our camp is empty!”
A few figures only were visible, straggling among the tents: the teamster, the camp-guard, the invalid soldier.
“Look! look!”
I followed the direction indicated. Against the long ridge that rose over the camp a dark-blue line could be traced—a line of uniformed men, glistening as they moved with the sparkle of ten thousand bayonets. It wound along the hill like a bristling snake, and, heading towards El Telegrafo, disappeared for a moment behind the ridge.
A gun from the globe-shaped hill—and then another! another! another!—a roll of musketry!—drums—bugles—shouts—cheering!
“The battle’s begun!”
“We are too late!”
We were still eight miles from the scene of action. We checked up, and sat chafing in our saddles.