El Telegrapho Hill――Cerro Gordo, the Big Hill――had been taken. When
Jerry, lugging his precious drum, joined the Fourth Infantry the blue
coats were swarming over the flat top, taking prisoners, and the
Mexican rout was tearing down in the south making for the Jalapa road.
From the northwest edge of the hill another storming column had
entered. This was the Second Infantry and Fourth Artillery, under
Colonel Bennet Riley, of the Second Brigade, who had been ordered to
make a half circuit. But they had arrived too late. Colonel Harney, the
dragoon, and his Third and Seventh Infantry and First Artillery had
captured the hill themselves. Those were the flags of the Third, the
Seventh and the First. The flag of the Seventh had been raised first.
Quartermaster-Sergeant Henry, of the Seventh, had been the man who had
hauled down the Mexican flag from the flagpole on the stone tower, and
the Seventh’s color-bearers had instantly raised their own standards.
The battle was won, but not all over. Colonel Riley at once launched
his column in pursuit of the fleeing Mexicans. General Shields’
Volunteers――the Third and Fourth Illinois and the New Yorkers――were
attacking in the west, to seize the batteries there and cut in to the
Jalapa road. Cannon were booming in the south, where General Pillow’s
Tennesseeans and Pennsylvanians and a company of Fourth Kentuckians
were being held at bay still. But the hill of Cerro Gordo commanded all
the country; it was the key, and in the Mexican batteries around white
flags were being hoisted. Detachments were sent by General Worth, who
was senior officer here, to take possession. The firing died away.
On the top of the hill all was excitement. The dead and wounded were
thick. The Rifles came up from the ravine where they had checked a
charge of the Mexicans to turn Colonel Harney’s left; their band was
bringing a lot of prisoners, to the tune of Yankee Doodle. The men of
the storming columns were loud in their praises of Colonel Harney. It
was he who had led, bare-headed and sword in hand. The fifteen hundred
of them had taken the hill, defended by breastworks and the stone tower
and six thousand Mexican soldiers. Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!
And now here was General Scott, on his horse. The men ran for him,
the wounded crawled nearer or feebly cheered; tears were flooding his
grizzled cheeks; he removed his hat, and his voice trembled.
“Brother soldiers! I am proud to call you brothers, and your country
will be proud to hear of your conduct this day. Our victory has cost us
the lives of a number of brave men, but they died fighting for their
country. Soldiers, you have a claim on my gratitude for your conduct
this day which I will never forget.”
He beckoned to Colonel Harney, and held out his hand to him.
“Colonel Harney, I cannot now fully express my admiration of your
gallant achievement, but at the proper time I shall take great pleasure
in thanking you in proper terms.”
He put his chapeau back upon his grey head and slowly rode on. Every
few paces he halted to bend and speak with the wounded.
Lieutenant Grant was untouched; so were Captain Gore and Lieutenant
Smith; the Fourth Infantry, and in fact, the whole of the First
Division had escaped all accident save by a few spent balls. It was
said that General Shields of the Volunteers had been mortally wounded
by a bullet through the chest――had a hole in him the size of one’s
fist! Major Sumner of the Second Dragoons had been wounded. Lieutenant
Thomas Ewell of the Rifles, but serving in the charge, had been the
first officer to spring upon the breastworks at the tower and had been
shot down. He and Colonel Harney and Quartermaster-Sergeant Henry (who
had hauled down the Mexican flag there) were the heroes of the hour.
Santa Anna had fled, when he saw the hill being taken. General Vasquez,
of his infantry, was lying dead here (a fine looking man, who had
fallen shot through the head, but his face to the foe); other generals
were surrendering――General Vega, who had been fighting off the Pillow
Volunteers, near the river, had surrendered all his force. How many
Mexicans had been captured and what the losses were on both sides
nobody yet knew.
Hugging his drum and roaming over the battlefield, Jerry met Hannibal.
They shook hands and danced.
“What you got there, boy?”
“A drum. Found it on the way up.”
“Mexican drum, huh? Going to keep it?”
“Guess so. Can’t I?”
“Sure you can. You may get a chance to be a drummer. We can fix it
over. But hurrah! Didn’t we do the business, though? Took the works
just as Fuss and Feathers said. Never a hitch. Pillow was licked, at
first, but that made no difference; nobody expected him to do more than
hold the enemy’s attention. Twiggs and Riley’s brigade are cleaning up
the country west, and the dragoons are right on Santa Anna’s heels. Now
we won’t stop again till we’re in the Halls of Montezuma. There’s the
long roll for the First. Good-by. We’re moving. Hang on to that drum.”
The First Division had been directed to march for the road and support
the Riley brigade in pursuit of the Mexicans. It was now mid-afternoon.
Reports came back that the dragoons were pressing hard down the road,
and that the Mexicans were too long-legged for the infantry. Camp was
ordered for the night, just beyond the little village of Cerro Gordo,
in the pass.
General Santa Anna’s headquarters camp had been here also. It and the
village had been seized by the Shields Volunteers and they were highly
excited. They had found Santa Anna’s carriage――a large gilded coach,
patterned after the State coach of Napoleon Bonaparte. But General
Santa Anna was not in it. He had cut the team loose and had fled upon
one of the mules.
The Volunteers were passing a wooden leg around; said that it was Santa
Anna’s leg――
“No! His leg is cork.”
“Well, this may be his reserve leg, mayn’t it? Next time we’ll capture
the cork leg and then he can’t run so fast.”
And a group of other Volunteers were having a rough and tumble over
something upon the ground.
It was a chest, burst open; a chest of Mexican money for the expenses
of Santa Anna’s army. The military chest, that is. The soldiers were
grabbing at the money; officers were trying to separate them. Suddenly
all stood aside and saluted, for General Scott was towering above, upon
his horse.
“Let the boys have what is on the ground, officers,” he said. “They’ve
fought and worked all day and deserve what they get. The remainder will
be placed in charge of the chief quartermaster.”
Pompey (Jerry had forgotten Pompey) arose from the bottom of the heap,
his black fists crammed with bills. He certainly had arrived here very
quickly; no doubt had come in one of the wagons sent forward to receive
wounded.
“Yes, suh. Sojerin’ is powerful hahd work fo’ mighty little pay,” he
pronounced. “We-all near captured Santy Annie. We done made him pore;
he’s gwine to beg his victuals, that’s shuah.” Pompey saw Jerry and
grinned. “Howdy, boy. Where you been?”
“Climbing Telegraph Hill with the troops.”
“Huh!” Pompey grunted. “Wha’ fo’ you go to all dat work? I come ’round
by the road an’ ketch Santy Annie hyar. He run so fast he forgit his
laig an’ all his money. Jest slashed his mules from dat coach an’
skadoodled. Where you find dat drum?”
“In some breastworks.”
“What you gwine to do with it?”
“Keep it.”
“’Spec’ you set big sto’ on bein’ a drummer.”
“Shouldn’t wonder, Pompey.”
“Dis chile’s so rich now he can be a gin’ral,” Pompey chuckled.
“He don’t have to sojer common. Yes, suh; Gin’ral Scott am a great
strateegis’.”
The baggage train had not come in yet from Plan del Rio, and the camp
was only a plain bivouac of blankets and haversack rations. Having
little to do, Jerry was cautiously trying out his drum, when Lieutenant
Grant spoke to him.
“You’ve won a drum, I see.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you play it?”
“A little, is all; but I’m learning.”
“You want to be a drummer boy, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you have a chance. One of the drummers of the Fourth broke his
leg on the way up the hill. He got in front of a spent solid shot. You
might report to Drum Major Brown and see if he can do anything for you.
I hope,” the lieutenant added, with a smile, “you can drum better than
you can cook or make a bed.”
“Hope so, too, lieutenant,” Jerry answered. “Thank you, sir. Hooray!”
Tall Drum Major Brown of the Fourth looked him over.
“Lieutenant Grant sent you, eh? What can you do?”
“I don’t know,” Jerry acknowledged. “I can’t cook.”
“Looks like he’s found that out. Whenever a man’s good at nothing he
tries to join the band or the field music. Humph! Where’d you get that
drum?”
“On the way up the hill.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Just following along, sir, to keep with the lieutenant and the
company.”
“You’re the same young fellow who was in the naval battery, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you drum?”
“Not much yet, but I’ll learn.”
“Let’s hear you. Sound a roll.”
Jerry did, after a fashion.
“Tap common time.”
Jerry did.
“Now quick time.”
Jerry did.
“You’ve got a pretty good ear,” the drum major approved. “I’m a drummer
short. I’ll see what I can do for you, but of course I’ll have to ask
the adjutant. Anyway, you can fall in with the field music in the
morning for the march. Are those your best clothes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maybe we can rustle a uniform for you, and have a tailor fit it.”
“Could I stay in Company B?”
“Why?”
“That’s my company, sir.”
“Oh! Is it! Well, as happens, the vacancy is in Company C, and there
you go unless Sykes of Company B will exchange with you, and the
company officers don’t object.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brown.” Jerry sped away to find Hannibal and practice
a few wrinkles. The two worked a long time, shortening the cross-belts
and adapting the drum so that it would hang properly.