It was still only an hour by sun as we rode off from the Eagle's Cave.
At some distance I turned in my saddle and looked back. It was a
singular sight, those _five_ hanging corpses, and one not easily
forgotten. What an appalling picture it must have been to their own
comrades, who doubtless watched the spectacle from some distant
elevation!
Motionless they hung, in all the picturesque drapery of their strange
attire--draggling--dead! The pines bent slightly over, the eagle
screamed as he swept past, and high in the blue air a thousand bald
vultures wheeled and circled, descending at every curve.
Before we had ridden out of sight the Eagle's Cliff was black with
zopilotes, hundreds clustering upon the pines, and whetting their fetid
beaks over their prey, still warm. I could not help being struck with
this strange transposition of victims.
We forded the stream below, and travelled for some hours in a westerly
course over a half-naked ridge. At mid-day we reached an arroyo--a
clear, cool stream that gurgled along under a thick grove of the _palma
redonda_. Here we "nooned", stretching our bodies along the
green-sward.
At sundown we rode into the _pueblito_ (hamlet) of Jacomulco, where we
had determined to pass the night. Twing levied on the _alcalde_ for
forage for "man and beast". The horses were picketed in the plaza,
while the men bivouacked by their fires--strong mounted pickets having
been thrown out on the roads or tracks that led to the village.
By daybreak we were again in our saddles, and, riding across another
ridge, we struck the Plan River five miles above the bridge, and
commenced riding down the stream. We were still far from the water,
which roared and "soughed" in the bottom of a barranca, hundreds of feet
below our path.
On crossing an eminence a sight suddenly burst upon us that caused us to
leap in our saddles. Directly before us, and not a mile distant, rose a
high round hill like a semi-globe, and from a small tower upon its top
waved the standard of Mexico.
Long lines of uniformed men girdled the tower, formed in rank. Horsemen
in bright dresses galloped up and down the hill. We could see the
glitter of brazen helmets, and the glancing of a thousand bayonets. The
burnished howitzer flashed in the sunbeams, and we could discern the
cannoniers standing by their posts. Bugles were braying and drums
rolling. So near were they that we could distinguish the call. _They
were sounding the "long roll_!"
"Halt! Great Heaven!" cried Twing, jerking his horse upon its haunches;
"we are riding into the enemy's camp! Guide," he added, turning
fiercely to Raoul, and half-drawing his sword, "what's this?"
"The hill, Major," replied the soldier coolly, "is `El Telegrafo'. It
is the Mexican head-quarters, I take it."
"And, sir, what mean you? It is not a mile distant?"
"It is ten miles, Major."
"Ten! Why, sir, I can trace the eagle upon that flag! It is not one
mile, by Heaven!"
"By the eye, true; but by the road, Major, it is what I have said--ten
miles. We passed the crossing of the barranca some time ago; there is
no other before we reach El Plan."
It was true. Although within range of the enemy's lightest metal, we
were ten miles off!
A vast chasm yawned between us and them. The next moment we were upon
its brink, and, wheeling sharply to the right, we trotted on as fast as
the rocky road would allow us.
"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.
And now the roll of musketry became incessant, and we could hear the
crack! crack! of the American rifles. And bombs hurtled and rockets
hissed through the air.
The round hill was shrouded in a cloud of sulphur, and through the smoke
we could see small parties creeping up from rock to rock, from bush to
bush, firing as they went. We could see some tumbling back under the
leaden hail that was poured upon them from above.
And then a strong band debouched from the woods below, and strained
upwards, daring all danger. Up, up!--and bayonets were crossed, and
sabres glistened and grew red, and wild cries filled the air. And then
came a cheer, long, loud, and exulting, and under the thinning smoke
thousands were seen rushing down the steep, and flinging themselves into
the woods.
We knew not as yet which party it was that were thus flying. We looked
at the tower in breathless suspense. The cloud was around its base,
where musketry was still rolling, sending its deadly missiles after the
fugitives below.
"Look! look!" cried a voice: "the Mexican flag--it is down! _See_!
`_the star-spangled banner_!'"
The American standard was slowly unfolding itself over the blue smoke,
and we could easily distinguish the stripes, and the dark square in the
corner with its silvery stars; and, as if with one voice, our troops
broke into a wild "Hurrah!"
In less time than you have taken in reading this account of it the
battle of Cerro Gordo was lost and won.