The orders were to clean up, as if for inspection and parade. General
Worth was sending word forward to the city council of Puebla, giving
notice that he intended to occupy the city at once. Evidently he wished
to march in in style to make a showing, for Puebla was the second
largest city in Mexico.
Jerry played in luck. He had kept his new uniform in the best of shape.
It would get shabby soon enough, like the other uniforms. His drum
shone. So he was done with his prinking early. The men generally were
taking their time, to rest and munch fruit. When he asked permission
to go for a stroll, Drum Major Brown said, having eyed him and seen
nothing wrong:
“All right. Report in thirty minutes.”
Tommy Jones, another smart drummer boy, from Company I, joined him.
“What you lugging your drum for, Jerry?”
“So nobody’ll spatter mud on it, of course.”
“You’re a greenie yet,” Tom asserted. “When you’ve carried a drum as
long as I have you’ll be mighty glad to drop it.”
“Well, I sha’n’t leave it, just the same. Some of those fellows would
put up a job on me to see how much I’ll stand.”
Jerry continued, with his precious drum. The mud-fenced corral was an
odd sight as he and Tom hastened through to the gate. The men finally
had settled to work. They were in all stages of undress: some of them
were washing their faces and handkerchiefs and shirts at the watering
troughs, some were shaving, some were sitting and polishing their
jacket buttons with their “buff sticks,” which held each button in a
slot while rag and powder were used; some were shining their buckles,
or whitening their cross-belts with soap-stone, or cleaning their
shoes; and a number had their muskets apart and were scouring the rust
and dirt from locks, barrels and bayonets.
Pompey was hard at it on the outfits of Lieutenant Smith and Lieutenant
Grant.
“Where you gwine, stripes?” he demanded. “’Peahs laike you drummers
ain’t got nothin’ to do. I shuah’d laike to jine the music. Jest
tootle an’ thumpity-thump while we-all work. Where you gwine now, so
importinent? Mebbe Santy Anne done sent fo’ you to s’render.”
“Mind you shine those buttons or you’ll get a whaling,” Jerry answered.
“I’ll be back to inspect.”
“You go ’long, stripes,” growled Pompey. “I ain’t no sojer. I’se with
the offercers. Who you, to be so uppity? All stripes an’ no rank; that
you!”
With Tom, Jerry hurried out.
“Pobrecitos! Aqui, pobrecitos――here, poor little boys,” the
kind-hearted women greeted, inviting them to eat. But they had no time
for that if they wished to see the town.
Somehow, the people of Amozoc were overcordial to an enemy. The North
Americans were invading their country――at Cerro Gordo probably had
killed Volunteers from this very place; and yet the citizens smiled
and bowed as if to friends. It struck Jerry as a game; he couldn’t put
much stock in all that palaver. He remembered the two Manuels.
The town was not anything great to look at. It manufactured saddles and
fine inlaid spurs, and the best building was the principal church. The
church sat inside a fenced yard shaded by immense yew trees covered
with crimson-flowering vines――very curious. Two or three officers were
gazing about and talking with the priests. The doors were open. Taking
off his cap Jerry sidled in; Tom followed.
“Dare you to climb that,” Tom challenged.
It was a ladder, seen through the doorway of a closet in one corner,
and extending almost straight up into the belfry.
“Never take a dare. You watch me,” said Jerry.
“I’ll hold your drum.”
“No, you won’t!”
Lugging the drum slung behind him, Jerry was out of breath when he
emerged into the dusty belfry, beside the great copper bell. But he
was glad that he had come. What a view! He could see the road, in the
east, connecting with the plateau that they had crossed from El Pinal;
he could see the top of Pizarro Peak at Perote; and he didn’t know
but that he could see the dust of the Second Brigade and the Quitman
Mohawks coming on one day’s march late.
He crept around the bell, and could see the brigade camp below. The
men, like specks, were washing up and mending clothes and whitening
belts in the corral and in the plaza where the artillery companies had
been quartered. He could see the specks of pickets, posted at the edge
of town. There in the west were snowy Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl,
sentinels over the Halls of Montezuma. And there, on this side of them,
was the city of Puebla of the Angels, sparkling in the afternoon sun.
Then, as his eyes traveled, they lighted upon a real dust cloud,
slightly in the north, between Amozoc and Puebla.
The cloud was advancing; yes, and rapidly. Whew! Cavalry, sure as
shooting. Mexican lancers! No other horsemen could be expected from
that direction, not in such a mass. The outpost guards had not seen
them yet.
Like lightning Jerry twitched his drumsticks from his belt, jerked
his drum to the fore, and beat the long roll. R-r-r-r-r-r-r!
R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r! And R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r!
The stunning noise in the hollow belfry deafened him. It must have
fallen like a thunder clap upon the ears of the camp. As he plied the
drumsticks with his two hands he saw that the grouped specks had frozen
stone still, as if staring about to locate the alarm.
He didn’t delay. Down he slid, down the ladder, never caring how he
landed――and he landed plump into somebody’s arms. They were Lieutenant
McClellan’s.
“You young rascal! What’s the meaning of this racket? Who authorized
you to――――?”
“The enemy, sir!” Jerry panted, not waiting. “They’re coming.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw their dust――――”
“Where?”
“Between here and Puebla――about five miles out――lancers, sir.”
Away ran Lieutenant McClellan.
“Golly!” blurted Tom, who had been listening with his mouth open. He,
too, ran, and Jerry after. They got to the corral just in time. All the
town had seemed to be excited, the pickets were firing alarm shots, the
long rolls were beating for artillery and infantry, officers and men
were hustling, and in the corral the Fourth Infantry was falling in,
helter skelter, the soldiers wrestling into their trousers and jackets
and shoes, buckling on their belts and cartridge boxes, seizing their
muskets.
An aide spurred through the corral gate.
“Colonel Garland! Oh, Colonel Garland! The general directs that you
take four companies of the Fourth, unite with the Second Artillery, and
commanding in person, march out upon the Puebla road until in touch
with the enemy or he has been dispersed.”
Captain Nichols, the adjutant, rapidly called the companies: A, B, E,
I. Company B was into it! Jerry sprang to his place. Drummer and fifer
stuck to their company on detached duty like this.
“Company B, by the right flank! Right face! Company, forward――march!”
Captain Gore bawled.
In double file (two ranks formation) Company A marched out through the
corral gate.
“By platoon, into line! Quick――march! Guide right.”
The other companies were close before and behind. The Second Artillery,
serving as infantry, was double-quicking from the plaza, under Major
Galt. Two guns of Colonel Duncan’s battery issued at a gallop. In
the plaza the remaining two cannon were being hauled at top speed to
opposite corners to face the streets.
At quick step the Colonel Garland detachment, with the guns trundling
at the rear, headed for the Puebla road. And a funny spectacle the
detachment made: loose shoes flopping, jackets askew and half buttoned,
belts dangling, caps wrong side before, muskets not all put together
yet, and many of the men only partly washed and shaved.
The cloud of dust was plain and much nearer. The Mexicans appeared to
be swinging around, northward, as if bent upon cutting the road east of
Amozoc. They could be seen easily: a great column of lancers――looked to
be two or three thousand, all at a trot, their yellow cloaks streaming,
their red jackets glimmering, their lance points, muskatoons and
trappings flashing.
“Form company! First platoon, right oblique!”