“Company, right turn――double quick――march!”
The detachment was marching straight for the lancers; down came the
lancers, massing for a charge.
“Column――halt!” Adjutant Nichols shouted.
“Form square――right and left into line――quick march――wheel!”
With rumble and thud and cheer the two guns of Flying Battery A dashed
to the fore. They were unlimbered and turned in a jiffy. The gunners
waved their slow matches, or linstocks, to brighten the spark. The
cannon were lined and pointed――an instant more and with a gush and a
boom a solid shot had whistled toward the gay lancers. Another――and
another. Whish! That was grape, and the lancers scattered. One more
dose of the murderous grape and they had whirled, every man――they were
scouring like mad back for Puebla, a general (by his epaulets) striving
in vain to rally them. He was carried along with the rest.
“Santa Anna! There goes Santa Anna!”
It was only a guess, but it proved true. Later news said that General
Santa Anna himself had gathered cavalry, infantry and artillery at
Puebla, in order to stop the American advance; he had left the infantry
and artillery there, while with the lancers he rode to cut off General
Worth’s Second Brigade from the First Brigade. In El Pinal Pass, for
instance, he might have done the job nicely. But he had chosen the
wrong time. A “rascal” of a drummer boy had seen him from the church
steeple.
After all it was not much of a brush. Colonel Garland took his column
into Amozoc again and arms were stacked; but the day was drawing to
a close and there was no more prinking. The camp had to keep on the
alert, with strong guards out, for the Mexicans might be up to more
tricks.
In consequence of being half dirty and half clean the men really looked
worse than ever.
General Worth waited for the Colonel Clarke brigade and the Quitman
Volunteers to join him. They arrived the next morning. General Quitman
brought only two regiments, the New Yorkers and Second Pennsylvanians.
The First Pennsylvania (Colonel Wynkoop’s “Dutch” regiment) had been
left at Perote. As for the other Mohawks――
“Did you know that Old Fuss and Feathers hasn’t more than six thousand
men all told?” Hannibal demanded, after first greetings.
“No!”
“That’s right. We’ve lost five thousand Mohawks since you left Perote.
Got only the First and Second Pennsylvania, the Palmettos and the New
Yorkers. The others were twelve-months men and their time is out soon.
The Alabamans and Georgians are still at Vera Cruz; and at Jalapa
General Scott let the Third and Fourth Illinois and the Tennesseeans
and Kentuckians go. They said they’d stay till the last day, but then
they wouldn’t re-enlist; they wanted to get home. So he thought they’d
better start right away, before the yellow fever got bad at Vera Cruz.
We’re garrisoning Jalapa and Perote, and that’s all. Have a big sick
list and a lot of desertions, too, but not as many as in Texas and
northeast Mexico. Up there the Mexicans kept tolling the men over by
promising high pay and officers’ jobs. Some of ’em are fighting under
Santa Anna now, I bet, because they’re afraid to come back. If they’re
captured they’ll be shot or hanged.”
“Where’s General Scott?”
“He’s coming from Jalapa with the Second Division. General Pillow’s
gone to Vera Cruz to look after reinforcements, and General Patterson
has gone home because he hasn’t men enough for a division. I suppose
Quitman or Pillow will command the Mohawks now. So you fellows didn’t
have much of brush with those lancers, you say?”
“No. They ran off.”
“Well, you did your best, boy. You gave the alarm. I guess those smart
officers will quit calling us ‘rascally drummer boys.’ Anyhow, hope
we beat the Second Division into Puebla. There’s no use in this whole
division sitting here, only ten miles out. We don’t need the Second.”
The restless General Worth decided the same thing. The scouts who
reconnoitred reported that all Santa Anna’s forces in Puebla had
vanished on the road to the City of Mexico; the mayor of Puebla sent
the same word. Before noon the First Division and the Quitman two
regiments of Mohawks marched for Puebla. The day was May 15.
A short distance out of Puebla the mayor and city council met General
Worth to escort him in. There was to be no fight. The road changed to a
magnificent paved highway leading between pillars of shining stone like
colored marble.
“Close order――march!”
Those were the company orders. The ranks closed up and the men took to
the cadenced step, all feet moving to the taps of the drums.
“Column, close in mass――quick――march!”
Each company closed in upon the company before, so that there was a
solid column of platoons, every musket at a right shoulder shift, every
foot planted in unison with the other feet.
“Guide――right!”
This did not prevent the men from glancing aside, as they marched
shoulder to shoulder. The tune for the fifes and drums was Yankee
Doodle but the regimental bands played Washington’s March.
The paved road led through a broad gateway in the city wall. The top
of the wall had been crowded with Pueblans, and now the streets were
lined with more, and the balconies of the buildings were fringed with
men and women gaily dressed, peering over to see the North Americans.
The women waved their handkerchiefs and fans, the men flashed white
teeth while they puffed their cigarettes and made remarks.
It was a pity that the toilet at Amozoc had been interrupted. Many of
the muskets were still stained from the battle of Cerro Gordo and the
rains; some of the rank and file had not had time to shave. Uniforms
were dingy, belts half whitened or whitened not at all, the buttons and
buckles and the band instruments were tarnished. Yes, and faces were
not especially clean, for the grime of the marches through dust and mud
was deep. Besides, a number of the soldiers had been ill.
It was evident that the Pueblans were disappointed. They had expected
to see glitter and show as in their own troops, instead of this
collection of thin, long-haired, shabbily clad troops marching under
rain-stained, wind-torn flags.
But no troops in the world could have marched with better discipline.
This was a veteran division, even the Mohawks. Those holes in the flags
were bullet holes, the stains were powder stains. Cerro Gordo was
behind, so was Perote, here was Puebla, and the next entry would be
that into the City of Mexico.
Halt was made in the large plaza, in the very center of the city,
bordered on one side by the great palace or governor’s house, six
hundred feet long, and on another by the cathedral, covering a block.
The Pueblans surrounded the plaza in dense ranks, staring and
commenting. General Worth showed not the slightest hesitation. The
division stacked arms here, cannon were placed at the corners, guards
were posted, and the companies dismissed. It was a pleasant spot. The
men comfortably stretched out. They were only three thousand Americans
in the midst of sixty thousand Mexicans, with the whole Mexican army
somewhere about; but in a few minutes two-thirds of them were sound
asleep.