- v 
 
 
 
BANCROFT 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 

LEGENDS 
 
 OF 
 
 MEXICO, 
 
 BY GEORGE LIPPARD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION," 
 "THE QUAKER CITY," ETC. ETC. 
 
 " We fight not to enslave, nor for conquest; 
 But to make room upon the earth for honest men to live in." 
 
 THE Caisi 1776. 
 
 $ f) 1 1 a 5 1 1 p I) i a : 
 
 T. B. PETERSON, 98 CHESNUT STREET. 
 
 1847. 
 
. \ 
 
 
 
 ENTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, by 
 
 T. B. PETERSON, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 Stereotyped by 
 H. P. MOOBIDG E PHILAD'A. 
 
 King Baird, Printers. 
 
 
r- P 
 
 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 I. THE CRUSADE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 ' Ho ! for the New Crusade !" 
 
 It was in the spring of 1846, that this cry, thundering from twenty-nine 
 states, aroused a People into arms, and startled Europe, its Kings and 
 Slaves, into shuddering awe. 
 
 It was in the dawn of the year, when the blossoms of spring were upon 
 the trees, and the Promise of a golden harvest on the fields, that a fiery 
 blast came from the far south, scattering the blossoms of battle over the 
 hills of our land, and darkening the sky with clouds of lurid grandeur 
 clouds that gave Promise of a harvest of blood. 
 
 In the spring of 1846, from the distant south, there came echoing in 
 terrible chorus, a Cry, a Groan, a Rumor ! That Cry, the earnest voice 
 of two thousand brave men, gathered beneath the Banner of the stars in a 
 far land, encompassed by their foes, with nothing but a bloody vision 
 of Massacre before their eyes. And the Cry, wrung from two thousand 
 manly hearts, said the People of the Union. We are in danger, but the 
 Banner of the Stars floats above us. An army, twice our number sur 
 rounds us, Assassins hung like vultures, in the shadows of our camp, a 
 Plague broods in the poisonous air, of the swamp and chaparral. Come 
 help us fight with us ! Or if you cannot fight, Come, and behold us 
 die, for the flag of Washington !' 
 
 That groan ! It was the incoherent yell, of the first American soldier, 
 who with the knife in his back, and the hot blood gurgling from his 
 throat, fell at the Assassin's feet on the shores of Rio Grande. 
 
 The Rumor ! Like the hurricane of the tropics it came. First, a small 
 cloud in a serene sky, far on the horizon it was seen, and no one won 
 dered to behold it. Then darkening up the zenith, it shut the southern 
 sky in a wall of ebony, and flashed its quivering lightnings far over the 
 snow mountains of the north. And it rolled on, that brooding Rumor, and 
 it gathered, and it grew, until its shadow darkened the Nation, and its 
 thunder and lightning spoke to the hearts of fifteen millions people. 
 
 an 
 
12 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 For that Rumor spoke of a battle, fought by American soldiers, amid 
 the sands and thorns of the hot chaparrel ; it spoke of hideous charges, 
 made through the darkness of yawning ravines, by men heroic to despair ; 
 it spoke of a contest, lengthening its bloody trail over the course of two 
 long days ; of a brave foe, fighting while there was a hope, and then 
 crowding in heaps of wounded, through the lone desert, and choking the 
 calm river with their mangled dead. 
 
 As thunder at once, convulses antl purifies the air, so that Rumor did 
 its sudden and tempestuous work, in every American heart. At once, 
 from the People of twenty-nine states, quivered the Cry 
 
 " To Arms ! Ho ! for the new crusade !" 
 
 Never since the days of Washington, had an excitement, so wild and 
 universal, thrilled in the souls of freemen. From the mountains of 
 Maine they are yonder, rising ruggedly in their stern grandeur, with 
 snowy mantles, bound about their granite brows to the prairies of the 
 Texas blossoming for hundreds of miles, a wilderness of flowers that 
 cry startled a People into action, and sent the battle-throbs palpitating 
 through fifteen millions hearts. 
 
 Long after we are dead, History will tell the children of ages yet to 
 come, how the hosts gathered for the Crusade, in the year 1846. 
 
 From the mountain gorges of the north, hardy birds of freemen took 
 their way, turning their faces to the south, and shouting Mexico ! In 
 the great cities, immense crowds assembled, listening in stern silence, to 
 the stories of that far-off land, with its luxuriant fruits, its plains of flow 
 ers, its magnificent mountains overshadowing calm lakes and golden cities, 
 and then the cry rung from ten thousand throats Mexico ! The farm 
 houses of the land, thrilled with the word. Yes, the children of Revolu 
 tionary veterans, took the rifle of '76 from its resting place, over the 
 hearth, and examined its lock, by the light of the setting sun, and ere 
 another dawn, were on their way to the south, shouting as they extended 
 their hands toward the unseen land " Mexico !" 
 
 Even now I see the panorama of that wild excitement spread varied 
 and bewildering before me. I see the workshop, give forth its hardy Me 
 chanic I see, the sturdy mountaineer, come from his gorge the em- ' 
 browned farmer from his fields the pale student from his desk and all 
 join the army of the New Crusade, and pour with arms glittering and 
 banners waving upon the plains of Mexico. 
 
 The world beheld the sight and wondered. Old Germany, festering 
 under her chains, looked up in awe, at this strange spectacle an every 
 day people suddenly transformed into a disciplined army. France, saw 
 it too, and sighed as she turned her eyes to the grave of Napoleon. But 
 England, hypocritical and ferocious, at once the fox and the hyena, crouch 
 ing on her trophies, the skulls of Irish starvation and the corses of Hindoo 
 Massacre England, whom we hurled from our shores in the Revolution, 
 
THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 13 
 
 and chased, ignominiously from our seas, in the second war, England, 
 that Carthage of Modern History, brutal in her revenge and Satanic in her 
 lust for human flesh, behold the American People, in arms, with trembling, 
 and recognized their victorious march to the south, with niggardly praise. 
 
 It must be confessed that the great national excitement of 1846, this 
 transformation of a plain working people, into a formidable, yes, an un- 
 conquered army, struck the tyrants of the old world with awe. The Man 
 who sits upon the Russian throne, worshipped as a God, and yet never 
 for one moment secure from the assassin's steel, beheld the wondrous 
 sight, and reviewed his armies of slaves, with new anxiety, asking from 
 his satraps an explanation of that magic word " THE PEOPLE !" 
 
 And while the world wondered, the " PEOPLE" of America rushed to 
 arms, and marched by tens and twenties, by hundreds and thousands, by 
 companies, by legions, by armies, to that golden land, which rose to their 
 vision, rich with the grandeur of past ages. 
 
 Standing on the mountain tops, the Crusaders of the Nineteenth Cen 
 tury beheld it that golden and bloody land of Mexico. 
 
 A land rich in the productions of every clime, where the fruits are more 
 luxuriant, the flowers more rain-bow like in their dazzling dies, the birds 
 more radiant in their plumage, than in any other land on the wide earth 
 of God. A land where monuments arise, mysterious and awful, with the 
 history and religion, of those solemn ages which melt away in the abyss 
 of time. A land, where every stone bears some tokens of the lost nations 
 and the dead people of ten thousand years. 
 
 A land, where in the course of forty-eight hours, you can ascend from 
 the hot plains of the tropics, festering with plague, to the mild clime of 
 eternal spring, strewn with the fruits of the temperate zone ; to the snow- 
 clad mountains, frozen as with the ice of the Polar waste, and with the 
 volcanoes throbbing with their breasts, like hearts of fire, beneath shrubs 
 of snow ! A land, no less beautiful with its flower- framed lakes, than 
 magnificent with its cathedrals, with images and shrines of solid gold, no 
 less gorgeous with its panorama of mountain, pyramid and valley, than 
 bewildering with its City of Cortes and Montezuma, that dream of gold 
 and blood, which men call Mexico. 
 
 " Ho ! for the new crusade !" 
 
 Yes, against this land, so burdened with awful memories, the American 
 People, marched in deadly and determined crusade. 
 
 Why was this ? 
 
 Because the infant Texas had felt the rude grip of Mexican Massacre ? 
 Because the homes of that virgin soil, had been desolated, the men butch 
 ered and the women dishonored, by the hordes of military chieftains, 
 trained to kill from childhood, and eager to kill, for so much per day ? 
 
 Why this Crusade ? 
 
 Was it because the Alamo, still cried out for vengeance ? That gtry 
 
]4 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Alamo which one day, dripped on its stones and flowers and grass with 
 the blood of five hundred mangled bodies the bodies of brave Texians 
 cut down by Mexican bayonets and pierced by Mexican balls, and hacked 
 by Mexican knives ? 
 
 Why this Crusade ? 
 
 Was it because the American People, having borne for a series of years, 
 the insults and outrages of Mexican Military despots, and seen their bro 
 thers in Texas, butchered like dogs, at last resolved, to bear insult and 
 outrage no longer, at last, determined to take from the Tomb of Wash 
 ington the Banner of the Stars, and swore by his Ghost, never to stay their 
 efforts, until it floated over the City of Mexico ! 
 
 These are some of the reasons of this new crusade, but not all. Here 
 is the truth of the matter 
 
 From the dark cloud of battle was stretched forth the hand of Almighty 
 God, and even from the shock of carnage, an awful voice spoke out : I 
 speak to Man in the thunder storm, I speak to him, in the Plague. Now, 
 I speak to him, in the breath of war, and write my lessons in the black 
 ness of the battle-field !' 
 
 Is this false ? Does not Almighty God, lead the Nations to civilization, 
 through the reeking Golgothas of War ? 
 
 But have a care, brave People ! The same tide of war, that now sweeps 
 over the vallies, and mounts the pyramids of Mexico, may roll back upon 
 your American land. What Prophet shall dare to read the meaning of yon 
 der portentous Future ? While we write our record of the war, that War is 
 still in the hey-day of its tempestuous career. The events that we chron 
 icle, have not yet reached the consummation. They ripen into history, 
 even as we write them down. 
 
 Strange and bewildering events ! 
 
 First we hear of the Battles of the Wilderness, those glorious struggles 
 of the desert and chapparal, where a few hardy Americans beat back and 
 trampled into duft the bravery arid chivalry of Mexico. Two battles, 
 fought on two successive days, under a burning sun, the Americans fight 
 ing with the certainty of .Massacre in case of defeat: the Mexicans look 
 ing forward, first to triumph, then to butchery 1 
 
 Next comes thundering on our ears, the story of a three days' fight, 
 fought by the children of Washington, against walls and bars and bolts, 
 and legions of armed men, a battle which for dogged perseverance and 
 sullen courage has no comparison in history; that glorious battle of the 
 city and mountain, which the Sierra Nevada beheld, and Monterey felt to 
 her most sacred home ! . 
 
 Then, another battle of three days, fought amid the snows of winter, 
 on the desert plain, by the Hero and his Crusaders, against the Mexicans 
 and their leader : a terrible triumph, which drew more tears from the 
 
THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 15 
 
 eyes of orphans ano* made more widows, than any fight of the entire 
 war. 
 
 Linked with this battle, in the same breath of glory, comes the story 
 of the conquered fort and the bombarded city, and last of all, the history 
 of the bloody route when the mountains of Cerro Gordo, could scarce 
 afford a hiding place to the dismayed leader of the Mexican legions. 
 
 Take it, all in all, such a Crusade of a civilized People, against a semi- 
 barbarous horde of slaves, has no parallel in history. 
 
 There is a deeper reason, in all this, than meets the superficial eye. 
 Beneath the bloody foam of battle, flows on, forever, the serene and aw 
 ful current of Divine truth. 
 
 Do you ask the explanation of this mystery ? Search the history of 
 the North American People, behold them forsake the shores of Europe, 
 and dare the unknown dangers of the distant wilderness, not for the lust 
 of gold or power, but for the sake of a Religion, a Home. 
 
 An Exodus like this the going forth of the oppressed of all nations 
 to a new world the angels never saw before. All parts of Europe, 
 sent their heart-wounded, their down-trodden thousands to the wilds 
 of North America. 
 
 The German and the Frenchman, the Swede and the Irishman, the 
 Scot and the Englishman, met in the wild, and grouped around one 
 altar Sacred to the majesty of God and the rights of man. From this 
 strangely mingled band of wanderers, a new People sprung into birth. 
 
 A vigorous People, rugged as the rocks of the wilderness which 
 sheltered them, free as the forest which gave them shade, bold as the 
 red Indian who forced them to purchase every inch of ground, with the 
 blood of human hearts. To this hardy People this people created from 
 the pilgrims and wanderers of all nations this People nursed into full 
 vigor, by long and bloody Indian wars and hardened into iron, by the 
 longest and bloodiest war of all, the Revolution, to this People of North 
 ern America, God Almighty has given the destiny of the entire American 
 Continent. 
 
 The handwriting of blood and fire, is upon British America and South 
 ern America. 
 
 As the Aztec people, crumbled before the Spaniard, so will the mon 
 grel race, moulded of Indian and Spanish blood, melt into, and be ruled 
 by, the Iron Race of the North. 
 
 You cannot deny it. You cannot avoid the solemn truth, which glares 
 you in the face. 
 
 God speaks it, from history, from the events now passing around 
 us, from every line of the career of the People, who followed his smile 
 into the desert. 
 
 As the People of the old Thirteen states, rose like one man, again? t 
 the Juggernaut of government, the British Monarchy, so the serfs of 
 
16 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Canada will rise, trample the thing of blood into dust, and in the gore of 
 the battle-field plant the olive tree of peace and freedom. 
 
 Thanks be to God, the time comes, when Niagara, will no longer ex 
 tend from a free land to a British despotism. Before many years that 
 awful cataract will sing the anthem of a free Continent. 
 
 God Almighty has given the destiny of the Continent, into the hands 
 of the free People of the American Union. 
 
 Not the Anglo-Saxon race, for such a race has no existence, save in 
 the brains of certain people, who talk frothily about immense nothings. 
 You might as well call the American People, the Scandinavian race, the 
 Celtic race, the Norman race, as to apply to them, the empty phrase, 
 Anglo-Saxon. This ridiculous word, has been in the mouths of grave 
 men, who should know better, for years : it is high time, that we should 
 discard it for some word, with a slight pretence to a meaning. 
 
 WE are no Anglo-Saxon People. No ! All Europe sent its exiles 
 to our shores. From all the nations of Northern Europe, we were formed. 
 Germany and Sweden and Ireland and Scotland and Wales and Eng 
 land, aye and glorious France, all sent their oppressed to us, and we 
 grew into a new race. 
 
 We are the American People. Our lineage is from that God, who bade 
 us go forth, from the old world, and smiled us 'into an Empire of Men. 
 Our destiny to possess this Continent, drive from it all shreds of Mon 
 archy, whether British or Spanish or Portugese, and on the wrecks of 
 shattered empires, built the Altar, second to the BROTHERHOOD OF MAN. 
 
 Then come with me, and look upon our Banner of the Stars, as it goes 
 in glory and gloom over the Continent, freedom's pillar of cloud by day, 
 her pillar of fire by night. Our fathers loved that Banner in the days of 
 old. Its stripes were painted with the blood of martyrs. Its stars flashed 
 through the clouds of Bunker Hill and Brandywine, and Saratoga, and 
 came shining out in the cloudless sky of Yorktown. Let us follow it 
 then, and bid God's blessing on it, as its stars gleam awfully through the 
 bloody mists of Mexico. 
 
 Let us not heed the miserable cant of the traitors among us, who ad 
 vise the Mexicans to give the American soldier a bloody and hospitable 
 grave. Though these traitors increase like vipers under a hot sun, though 
 they poison our air, in the Senate and the Press, let us pass them by, with 
 a simple prayer, that God will be very merciful to the pitiful dastard, 
 who under the cloak of British or Mexican Sympathy would turn 
 traitor to a land like ours. 
 
 WASHINGTON, you all remember, sate in his Camp at Cambridge, in 
 September, 1775, his eyes fixed upon the map of the Continent, his finger 
 laid upon Curada, while his unsheathed sword, reached from Labrador to 
 Patagoria. In the silence of night, even as he planned the conquest of 
 
THE CAMP IN THE WILDERNESS. 17 
 
 Canada, he recognized this great truth God has given the American Con 
 tinent to the free. 
 
 Let us follow then, the American Banner, and while our souls are 
 awed by the thunder flash of battle ; while the horrible world of carnage 
 with its shrieks and groans, its dead armies and butchered legions widens 
 and crimsons around us, let us never for one moment forget, that myste 
 rious Symbol of our destiny THE UNSHEATHED SWORD OF WASHINGTON 
 
 RESTING UPON THE MAP OF THE NEW WORLD. 
 
 II. THE CAMP IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 THE Army encamped in the wilderness, a hamlet of white tents, gleam 
 ing from the gloom of the boundless prairie, the stars of midnignt shining 
 serenely from the dark blue vault, that Banner, with its stars, its belts of 
 scarlet and snow, borne aloft, like a mighty bird, by the summer breeze ! 
 
 Here, rising from the sod of the prairie, a solitary rock, glooms greyly 
 through the night. Like the fragment of some meteoric shower, like the 
 wreck of some Pre-Adamite world, like a monument, built long ages ago 
 to the memory of the heroic dead, the solitary rock, glooms into the 
 sky. 
 
 We will stand near the rock, we will lean upon its rugged front, and 
 gaze upon this strange sight the camp in the wilderness ! 
 
 Does not the scene strike your heart with a deep awe ? 
 
 That boundless prairie, canopied by the midnight sky, with the hamlet 
 of white tents gleaming like altars of snow from the darkness ! Far to 
 the south, thick and dense, like a forest blasted in its growth, extends the 
 chaparral ; a wall of briers and thorns. Yonder, on the north, like a 
 silver clasp, on a robe of dark velvet, a small lake, shines from the black 
 ness of the prairie. 
 
 In front of each tent, the bayonets gleam, like scattered drops of light. 
 Here you behold the cannon, and there, the war-horses, crouching in 
 slumber, on the soft grass of the waste. 
 
 A silence like death prevails. 
 
 Now it is broken by the voice of the sentinel, pealing suddenly from 
 the camp of the wilderness. Now, the shrill neigh of the war-steed now 
 the roar of the ocean, breaking on the shore, seven miles away, comes 
 like the hoarse whisper of a thousand men murmuring over the plain. 
 Now, a stillness like death ; in that encampment of two thousand brave 
 men, not a sound is heard. 
 
 Again, hark ! The howl of the jackal, comes like a funeral knell over 
 the waste. Hideous, prolonged, distant, that cry chills your heart with 
 dread, for it speaks of a loathsome beast, mangling with grey teeth and 
 fangs, the cold face of the battle dead. 
 
 And whether the Ocean's roar comes like a hoarse whisper, or the 
 
 2 
 
18 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 jackal's howl like a funeral knell, whether the cry of the sentinel breaks 
 along the air, or the neigh of the war-horse, quivers like a battle-shout, or 
 whether a silence like death, comes down upon the camp of the wilder 
 ness, still, yonder, above the central tent, floats and swells the Banner of 
 the Stars. 
 
 Confess with me, that the scene is invested with a grandeur all its own. 
 Here, you behold no mountains rising from clustered vallies, into the 
 region of eternal silence and snow. Here, no undulating hills, crowned 
 with the golden wheat or emerald corn. Here, no awful cliffs, with a 
 narrow passage, winding amid their broken shadows. Only a vast prairie, 
 a hamlet of tents and a midnight sky ! 
 
 You have seen Washington encamped among the wintry hills of Valley 
 Forge, or amid the sublime cliffs of the Hudson, or in the centre of the 
 Brandywine vallies. Encircled by scenes like these, the American Ban 
 ner floated on the air, into a background of rocks, or mountains, or undu 
 lating woods. But here, it waves against the sky, alone. Here, man 
 with nothing to break the awful monotony of the scene is in truth, alone 
 with the earth and sky. 
 
 From the central tent of the encampment, with the mountains, waving 
 to the air, a belt of light streams far along the sod. 
 
 Ere, we enter that tent, and gaze upon the Man who watches there, let 
 us remember these important truths : 
 
 It is the seventh of May, 1846. 
 
 This little army of two thousand men, slumbering securely on the 
 boundless Prairie, are surrounded by a Mexican army of some six thou 
 sand veteran soldiers. Yonder wall of chaparral is black with their 
 faces. 
 
 The morrow will bring a battle and the end of that battle will be 
 Massacre and Butchery. 
 
 We enter the central tent of the Camp in the Wilderness. 
 
 A solitary light burns there, on the small table, overspread with charts 
 and papers. 
 
 In the far corner of this home in the wilderness, with its roof and walls 
 of fluttering canvass, you behold military trunks piled in a mass. Around 
 the light extends an open space of grassy sod. 
 
 Four men are gathered there, talking with each other, in low, earnest 
 tones. 
 
 The one on the right, dressed in a plain green frock, with a knife in 
 his belt and a rifle in his hand, is a Texian Ranger : a man of iron 
 frame, not so remarkable for his height as for the unpretending resolution, 
 written upon his sunburnt face. Broad cheekbones, an aqualine nose, 
 thin, firm lips, wide forehead and chesnut hair, curling in short locks, com 
 plete the picture of his face. 
 
 He stands there, erect as the Red Indian, a fine specimen of an iron 
 
THE CAMP IN THE WILDERNESS. 19 
 
 man, who with but ten hunters, armed with rifles, would deem himself a 
 match for at least an hundred disciplined soldiers. 
 
 Next to him, presenting a perfect contrast, you behold a tall young sol 
 dier, clad in the blue uniform of the American dragoon, his finely propor 
 tioned limbs, narrow waist, and broad chest, his marked face, with hair 
 flowing to the shoulders, and beard waving over the breast both dark as 
 night affording a picture, something like the chivalric crusader of the 
 olden time. 
 
 Opposite the young dragoon, stands a man of majestic stature, and im 
 posing presence. His fine figure is clad in the blue and buff uniform 
 which clings to him like a glove to the hand, with the epaulettes on the 
 shoulder, the sword by the side. His dark hair falls back from his broad 
 forehead, his full eye sparkles as with the fire of battle. In his deter 
 mined face, you may read the lineaments of his great Ancestor, an heroic 
 General of the Revolutionary time. 
 
 The centre of the group and the object of every eye ! 
 
 An old man. An old man, not even clad in the glitter and show of a 
 uniform, but attired in the much-used frock coat of dark brown hues, grey 
 pantaloons, with a wide-brimmed hat in his hand. An old man, with a 
 broad chest, a figure not more than five feet nine inches in stature, a face, 
 bronzed by the sun and toil of thirty eight years of battle service. 
 
 His form is somewhat broad and bulky, his face bronzed and seamed 
 by battle toil, his hair whitened by age, and yet there is that about the old 
 man, which interests your eye, and impresses your heart. 
 
 His face, in repose, seems only to indicate an overflowing good humor 
 and abundance of social feeling. But now the full grey eye flashes wild 
 deep light, from beneath the strongly defined eye brow, the lips the lower 
 one slightly projecting are moulded in an expression of iron resolution, 
 the brow glows in every wrinkle, with the fire of Thought. 
 
 Who are these four men gathered at midnight, by the light of the soli 
 tary candle, in this Tent of the Wilderness ? 
 
 They bear names which may become famous before many days. The 
 Texian Ranger, is Captain Walker the chivalric dragoon, Captain May 
 the soldier of the majestic figure, Major Ringgold. And the old man in 
 the faded brown coat, with the broad brimmed hat in his hand, stands 
 there with the lives of two thousand men upon his heart, with the honor 
 of the Flag of Washington in his hand. 
 
 That plain old man is ZACHARY TAYLOR, General of the Continental 
 Army Yes, let us call this heroic band by the name which Washington 
 made sacred, that name which indicates the destiny of our arms and the 
 course of our civilization CONTINENTAL. 
 
 Can you tell me the nature of the thought, that stamps the old man's 
 brow ? 
 
 Even as you gaze in his battle-worn face, he starts he mutters an 
 
20 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 ejaculation of surprise. For booming over the waste from afar, comes 
 that hoarse murmur of the Signal gun. Yes, seven days ago, when with 
 Mexicans swarming over plain and river he left the Rio Grande, deter 
 mined to march to Point Isabel, distant some twenty-six miles, there re 
 mained in the rude fort opposite Matamoras, the veteran Major Brown, 
 with only three hundred men. 
 
 ' When you are attacked," said Zachary Taylor, " send me word by 
 your signal gun." 
 
 That signal gun has been heard for the last four days and nights. But 
 a few hours ago, driven almost to frenzy by its sound, Taylor, with his 
 men, left Point Isabel, on the sea shore, determined to march to the rescue 
 of his brothers on the Rio Grande to march twenty-six miles, through 
 that wilderness of chaparral and prairie, swarming with the veteran armies 
 of Mexico. Nor with armies alone, but darkened by the wild assassin 
 horde of rancheros. 
 
 And now, encamped for the night, on the desert prairie, he hears once 
 more the signal gun, calling with its thunder throat for aid. As he starts 
 with anxiety, raising his hand to his brow, let us for ourselves behold the 
 danger announced by the Signal gun. 
 
 Away to the Rio Grande, that stream which like a huge serpent winds 
 languidly to the sea. Away through these wastes, across these dark 
 ravines, away for eighteen miles, and look upon the peril of the heroic 
 three hundred. 
 
 Emerging from the shadows of the chaparral, we stand upon this rock, 
 and witness a wildly beautiful scene. Before us, rolling through the dim 
 shadows like a waving belt of silver thrown down upon a black mantle, 
 gleams the Rio Grande. Yonder through the gloom, we behold the roofs 
 and steeples of Matamoras ; a town built in a strange Moorish architec 
 ture, embosomed in a country of leaves and flowers. 
 
 On this side of the river, the Fort gleams through the night, an immense 
 structure of earth, built by the old General, when he first displayed the 
 banner of the stars on the Rio Grande, and held for the last four days and 
 nights, by the veteran Brown and three hundred men, against thousands 
 of Mexican soldiers. 
 
 The night is very dark and still. The sky is obscured by clouds the 
 clouds of cannon smoke which for four days and nights have veiled sun, 
 moon, and stars. 
 
 Suddenly, from the town, a blaze rushes into the dark sky. Is it a 
 Comet, with its head of fire, and long mane of flame ? It sweeps over 
 the dark pall, it lights the winding river with a momentary glare, and then 
 hisses down into the rude home of the American soldiers. 
 All is silent, dark, and dead again. 
 
 Not a sound from the fort. Its bastions half-destroyed, its trenches 
 filled with earth, its soldiers standing like spectres, in the shadows, this 
 
THE CAMP IX THE WILDERNESS. 21 
 
 fort capable of containing six regiments of soldiers, is now silent as the 
 grave. 
 
 Where is the commander of these men, where the veteran Brown, who 
 seven days ago, grasped swarthy-faced Zachary by the hand, and pledged 
 himself to keep the fort or die ? 
 
 Come ! While from the centre of the Fort, lashed to the staff, the 
 banner of the Stars waves on the night, as it has waved since first it shone 
 over Rio Grande Come ! Here, we will find the first hero of the fort. 
 
 Behold him in his couch. Yes, a couch sheltered by a rude canopy. 
 Certain barrels, support horizontal pieces of timber, on which sod and 
 clay is laid. In that dismal resting place, thus made, behold all that re 
 mains of the hardy soldier. His brow wet with the dews of mortal 
 agony, he writhes there, protected by these barrels from the bomb-shells, 
 which cut the earth and agitate the air on every side. 
 
 Only yesterday, with his right leg, in literal words, torn from his body 
 by a shell only yesterday, while calmly taking his rounds through the 
 besieged fort, he fell, and as he writhed in pain, uttered the memorable 
 words : 
 
 " Men go to your duties : stand by your posts : I am but one among 
 you.' 1 
 
 As we gaze upon him in his agony dying here by inches, on the shores 
 of Rio Grande that solitary streak of fire is followed by .another, and 
 another, until the sky is alive with threads of quivering light. It looks 
 like a battle fought in the heavens, by the good and evil angels ; the wea 
 pons stars and comets. 
 
 The town, its roofs crowded with people, its cathedral towers looming 
 over all, comes forth gaily in the red light, Boom boom boom the 
 cannon shout, as they hurl the brazen balls through the heated air. 
 
 The winding river glows and burns on every wave. The fort, with its 
 battered walls, its disfigured parapets, its three hundred solders, cowering 
 for want of ammunition by their voiceless guns, stands out in the glare of 
 that fierce cannonade. 
 
 On either side of the fort, from the river shore to the chaparral, the 
 prospect is terrible. The land swarms with Mexicans. Their gay ap 
 parel of gilt buttons, glittering spangles, cloth of many dies, shines bril 
 liantly in the light. Here march the disciplined legions ; there skulks 
 the knifed and bearded Ranchero, waiting until the fort is taken, that he 
 may cut throats, and feel hot blood spouting over his hands. 
 
 At this moment, when the brave three hundred, these iron men, who, 
 since last Sabbath morning have stood, with but a few soldiers killed, the 
 incessant bombardment, listen to the groans of the mangled veteran, and 
 behold the universe, blazing with light, the river and the shore and the 
 city, all black with thousands, waiting for the moment of their fall, that 
 they may witness their massacre, at this moment, when the " great old 
 
22 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 man," Zachary, is but eighteen miles away, waiting for morning light, 
 when with his two thousand, he will cut his way to the fort or die at 
 this instant of light and darkness and blood, the torch is applied to the 
 cannon, and that signal gun calls to the General, far over the prairie, and 
 with its fiery throat says, help us or we die ! 
 
 Let us see what difficulties intervene between the Cromwell of the 
 American Army, and the doomed fortress on the Rio Grande. 
 
 Search the chaparral they gleam with bayonets. Yes, like fire flies 
 the sharp points glitter through the gloom. Look into the ravines they 
 are black with crouching rancheroes, grim fellows, who cut a throat to 
 give them appetite, and inflict a stab in the back from mere exuberance of 
 animal spirits. 
 
 For eighteen miles or more, which extend between Fort Brown and 
 {he Camp in the Wilderness, the Mexican forces the regular veterans, 
 who have fought like wounded tigers in many a battle, and the assassin 
 hordes who follow the disciplined legions, as buzzards flutter in the wake 
 of eagles the Mexican forces extend in terrible array, one immense 
 cloud of battle, armed with the thunder of cannon, the lightning of lance 
 and bayonet. 
 
 They await the coming of the Morrow ! There will be a royal time, 
 by the setting of to-morrow's sun. Whoop ! How the vultures will shriek, 
 as by its last ray, they settle on the cold faces of the battle dead, and pick 
 glassy eyes from their sockets. 
 
 Through the dusky chaparral, into the camp of the Mexican general ! 
 A splendid tent, fluttering with curtains of silk and gold, and with the 
 light of wax candles, streaming through its crevices, rises in the centre of 
 a grassy glade, near a lakelet of cool, clear water. 
 Around this tent, all is light, glitter and motion. 
 
 Here a tawny Ranchero in his half bandit, half soldier uniform crouches 
 on the grass, playing cards with a soldier of the regular forces : yonder 
 the clatter of the drinking vessel breaks on the air, mingled with the sound 
 of footsteps, rioting in the dance. 
 
 And all the while, bands of music, fill the air with a thunder-chorus of 
 rich sounds, or die away through the dark paths of the chaparral, in a low 
 deep murmur, that seems like a requiem for the battle-dead. 
 
 And near the lakelet, towers the Marque of the General, surmounted 
 by the gay tri-colored flag of Mexico, typifying the three predominant 
 influences in that golden and bloody clime, Superstition, Ignorance, 
 Crime. 
 
 Within the tent, seated on a luxuriously cushioned chair, near a volup 
 tuous bed, glistening with the trappings of oriental taste, you behold a 
 man of warrior presence, his gay uniform thrown open across the breast, 
 while he holds the goblet of iced champaigne to his lips. 
 
 By his side, converses the handsome and brave La Vega, and around 
 
THE CAMP IN THE WILDERNESS. 23 
 
 extends a circle of officers, clad in the most gaudy uniforms, their eyes 
 keeping time with their lips, in the game of careless mirth. 
 
 The fragrance of tobacco not your miserable weed, which is called 
 Tobacco, because it resembles a compound of brimstone and pitch but the 
 glorious tobacco, from Cuba, pervades the tent, with a mild and delicious 
 perfume. 
 
 The swarthy faces of the Mexican officers, glow with calm satisfaction 
 as the champaigne glass and the Havana cigar, pass from lip to lip. 
 
 In the camp of Zachary Taylor, you behold nothing but a plain old 
 man, in a brown coat, conversing earnestly with three of his bravest offi 
 cers, on the fate of to-morrow's battle : 
 
 Here, the blaze of oriental magnificence blinds your sight, here the 
 laugh and the song go round, to the chorus of clattering glasses and ap 
 plauding hands. In the midst of all, sits the General Arista, that man 
 whom Santa Anna made a soldier, twirling his red mustache, as he presses 
 the delicious champaigne to his lips. 
 
 Meanwhile Ringgold, and Walker and May three heroic men, each 
 the type of a different class have gone to their quarters and the leader 
 of the American army is alone. 
 
 Extended on the rude camp bed he sleeps. His form still attired in 
 his plain apparel, his throat bared, his bronzed face turned to the light. 
 He slumbers for a few brief hours, in order to gather strength for the 
 march of the morrow. 
 
 The sentinel a grim veteran paces slowly up and down in front of 
 the tent. 
 
 Ail is silent. The distant roar of the Ocean, the howl of the jackal, the 
 neighing of steeds, have died away. 
 
 As the moon rises over the distant horizon, flinging the shadow of the 
 tents far over the sod, a dark object moves in the gloom advances imper 
 ceptibly and is still again. 
 
 Is it a jackal in search of a dead body, or a vulture impatient for the 
 feast of the morrow ? 
 
 Still it moves on, ever keeping in the shadow. Moves on, while the 
 Sentinel paces to and fro, and the May moon rises over the Camp in the 
 Wilderness. 
 
 It approaches the tent of the General, glides under the walls, and starts 
 stealthy up to his bed, and stands revealed, in the form of a man of some 
 sixty years, with a broad chest, tawny skin, long hair, grizzled with age 
 and thick beard, descending to the breast of a half-robber uniform. 
 
 It is a Ranchero. He stands scowling beside the couch of the Gen 
 eral, his white teeth, gleaming beneath his dark mustache, while the sharp 
 knife quivers in his hand. 
 
 Hark a footstep ! The sentinel comes, passes the opening of the tent, 
 looks in, and sees nothing but the bronzed face of the sleeping general. 
 
24 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 For the Ranchero has sunk beside the couch, nestling snake-like in the 
 
 shadow. 
 
 The Sentinel is gone, and that dusky image of Assassination, glooms once 
 more beside the couch, the knife quivering in his hand. The bared throat 
 invites the blow* A muttered ejaculation in barbarous Spanish, and the 
 murderer contemplates his victim. 
 
 An old man, soundly sleeping, as though God protected every one of 
 his grey hairs, and reserved his large brain, for immortal deeds. 
 
 One blow of that knife, and the old man is a corse, the American army 
 deprived of its Mind, the Mexicans secured forever from his sword. 
 
 Only one blow ? The grizzled-haired Ranchero raises the knife, mut 
 ters a prayer, kisses a cross, and whirls the knife home, to the victim's 
 heart. 
 
 That brawny arm, with sinews like whip cords never failed of its mark, 
 never once, in the perils of darkest battles ; why should it now ? 
 
 And yet it does ! Hissing through the air, it grazes the General's cheek, 
 and cleaves his pillow. 
 
 The face of the Murderer, is convulsed in every feature. As though 
 astonished by his want of success, he folds his hands, bends, prays and 
 then crawls snake-like from the tent. 
 
 The knife was found next morning, buried in the pillow. 
 
 Again that dim figure creeping through the ways of the camp now 
 pausing, now looking like a frightened tortoise from a side, and still cau 
 tiously crawling on, he gains the open prairie, where his steed waits for 
 him, with quivering nostrils and waving mane. 
 
 And still the moon arises and sheds its calm light over the city of tents, 
 and over the bronzed face of the sleeping old man. And the sentinel, 
 pacing his rounds in front of the old General's tent, feels his senses 
 cheered by the perfume of wild flowers , feels the cool breeze from the 
 ocean upon his brow, feels the throb of the fight, which is to come on the 
 morrow, already palpitate in his veins. 
 
 In the dusky shadow of the chaparral, a Ranchero dismounts from his 
 steed. 
 
 By the light of the moon, you may see twenty swarthy faces, look 
 from the covert in his face, and the stalwart forms of the band, encircle 
 with a wall of iron-sinewed chests. 
 
 The solitary Ranchero, whom we have seen, bending over the couch 
 of Zachary Taylor, advances, and then you hear these fierce whispered 
 words, spoken in barbarous Spanish 
 
 " It is done ?" cries the foremost of the band. " The Oath was taken 
 on the Holy Cross. We swore to have the life of the Invader. On you, 
 by lot, devolved the office of Executioner. You have done it. Yes 
 the blood of the American drips from your steel !" 
 
 But the Ranchero with grizzled hair and beard could not reply. 
 
THE CAMP IN THE WILDERNESS. 25 
 
 Bending down among his brethren those stern children of the wild 
 he veiled his face in his hands. 
 
 " I saw him in his sleep I felt the blood tingle in my veins I struck 
 home with the knife but there was something about the old man's face 
 that turned its aim aside. I could not kill him ! Sworn to do the deed, 
 sworn upon the holy cross, to destroy the invader, I could not strike, him ! 
 There is a Providence about the old man !" 
 
 And as the Ranchero the bloodiest of that bloody band sank cower 
 ing on the sod, not ashamed to confess, that he was afraid to kill the 
 sleeping old man, the brothers of the dark confederacy, gazed upon his 
 tawny face, in silent awe in wonder in fear even as the moonlight 
 played with the blade of his assassin's knife. 
 
 In the most fearful hour of battle that hour, when the hand is weary 
 with slaughter, and the eye sick of seeing forevermore wherever it turns, 
 the faces of dead men this same Ranchero, with the blood pouring from 
 his death-wound, told the strange story to an American soldier, who knelt 
 by his side, and ' thanked God, that there was a Providence about the 
 old man.' 9 
 
 Up over the prairie, up over the chaparral, up over the city and the 
 fort, rises the moon ! The night wears on. Still, from the fort yells the 
 shriek of the signal gun, and in the plaza of Matamoras gather the forlorn 
 hope, who are to storm the refuge of the Americans, and put them all to 
 the mercy of the assassin's knife. The night wears on. Between your 
 vision and the moon, the vulture flaps his wings from yonder thicket 
 tlflt jackal howls for his dead man feast. The night wears on, the moon 
 rises, the hum of a thousand insects makes the atmosphere alive. The 
 Banner of the Stars still waves from its staff; the Crusaders still soundly 
 sleep beneath its folds. 
 
 Sleep on, brave men. To-morrow, perchance, for many of you, a softer 
 couch will be spread by skeleton hands. Dream of your wives, your little 
 ones of all that Heaven says to us in the word Home. To-morrow : 
 for many of you, that word will not mean the pleasant fireside of Penn 
 sylvania, nor the quiet room of your wild-wood dwelling, but merely a 
 dark chaparral, a dead body, with a Jackal and Vulture as chief mourners. 
 
 Pace your rounds brave sentinel, with your grey moustache and with 
 ered cheek. 
 
 Even now, in your distant home, your daughter oh you remember her ! 
 how beautiful she looked, when she pressed her warm lips to your mouth 
 and said, playing with your hard hands Good bye ; God bless you 
 Father ! Even now in that distant home, just a few paces from the vil 
 lage path, where the old sycamore stands, your daughter comes to the 
 window, and looking upon the very moon which shines upon your face, 
 Prays God that father may come home again, and come soon ! 
 
 Pace on your rounds brave sentinel, and shout " All is well !" What 
 
 3 
 
26 THE BATTLES. OF TAYLOR. 
 
 matter if the Jackal echoes you, and the Buzzard flaps its wings above 
 your head ? 
 
 Do you know, brave soldiers, that it makes my heart feel sick, to go 
 among- your tents, at this dead hour of the night, and listen to the words 
 you whisper in your dreams ? 
 
 Home Wife Child ! These words are on your lips, still you whis 
 per of them all. Here, a beardless boy turns him over in his sleep, and 
 says in one breath, the words, Mother Glory ! A ghostly marriage of a 
 pale face with blue eyes and grey hair, with a hideous skull wreathed 
 with flowers, those words form together Mother and Glory ! 
 
 Sleep on, stout old Zachary, nor dream of your Indian wars, nor turn 
 your bronzed face from the moon, nor restlessly reach forth your hand 
 to grasp your sword. Never fear the morrow. God and Destiny watch 
 over your grey hairs, and for you bright words are written, even upon the 
 battle cloud, and brighter forms beckon you on, even across the wilderness 
 of battle graves ! 
 
 111.,-THE DEAD WOMAN OF PALO ALTO. 
 
 AND so the night passed in that Camp of the Wilderness ! 
 
 While it wears on, and ere the morning dawns, let me lead you for a 
 little while, from the prominent personages of history, to those quiet 
 characters, whose destiny is woven into the fate of battles and empires, 
 like threads of silver with a bloody shroud. ^ 
 
 Let me tell you a Legend of the war, a legend of the new crusaw. 
 Legend ? What mean you by Legend ? One of those heart- warm stories, 
 which, quivering in rude earnest language from the lips of a spectator of a 
 battle, or the survivor of some event of the olden time, fill up the cold out 
 lines of history, and clothe the skeleton with flesh and blood, give it eyes 
 and tongue, force it at once to look into our eyes and talk with us ! 
 Something like this, I mean by the word Legend. So many gentle 
 men have done me the kindness, to write " Legends" since I began it, and 
 in certain cases, to borrow mine, without so much as a bow for common 
 courtesy, that I am forced to define my position. " Legend" may mean 
 what you please, it certainly is not a thing to be stolen from the owner, 
 by all the highwaymen and footpads of literature. These gentlemen meet 
 my Legends of the Revolution in the highway of a book, or the railroad 
 of a newspaper, and on the instant cry, stand ! strip them of all vestiges 
 of the owner's name, and send them forth to the world again, as gipsies 
 do stolen children, with their faces marked and a new name. May I be 
 permitted to ho^e, that the Rancheros of literature will suffer to pass, 
 without robbing or maiming, my Legends of Mexico ? 
 
 A legend, is a history in its details and delicate tints, with the bloom 
 
THE DEAD WOMAN OF PALO ALTO. 27 
 
 and dew yet fresh upon it, history told to us, in the language of passion, 
 of poetry, of home ! 
 
 It must be confessed that the thing which generally passes for History, 
 is the most impudent, swaggering bully, the most graceless braggart, the 
 most reckless equivocator that ever staggered forth upon the great stage of 
 the world. 
 
 He tells us a vast deal of Kings and blood, Revolutions and Battles, 
 Murderers by wholesale, but not a word does he say of that Home-life 
 of nations, which flows on, evermore the same, in all ages, whether Kings 
 cut one another's throats, or the throats of their pitiful sheep, the peo 
 ple. 
 
 History, for example draws you a picture of a tall man on Horseback, 
 with a cap and sword and feather, and calls it Washington, but what does 
 History say of Washington, the Man, in his home, with the arms of his 
 wife about his neck ; or Washington, the Man, in his closet, with the 
 thought of his country's destiny, eating like a silent agony into his great 
 soul ? 
 
 History, deals like a neophyte in the artist's life, in immense dashes 
 and vague scrawls, and splashy colors : it does not go to work like the 
 master painter, adding one delicate line to another, crowding one almost 
 imperceptible beauty on another, until the dumb thing speaks and lives ! 
 
 History to speak to the heart, should not lie to us by wholesale, nor 
 deal in vague generalities, which are worse than robust lies, for they only 
 tell half the truth, and leave the imagination to fill the other half with the 
 infinite space of falsehood : No ! It should, in narrating the records of an 
 event or age, make us live with the people, fight by them in battle, sit 
 with them at the table, make love, hate, fear and triumph with them. 
 While it pictures the cabinet and field, it should not forget the Home. 
 While it delineates the great career of ambition, it should not neglect the 
 quiet but still impressive walk of social life. 
 
 While it eloquently pictures Washington the General charging at the 
 head of his legions, it should not forget Washington the Boy, in his rude 
 huntsman's dress, struggling for his life, on a miserable raft, amid the 
 waves and ice of the wintry flood. At the same time, that it delineates 
 Taylor, the Conquerer of the New Conquest of Mexico, sitting on his 
 grey steed, amid the roar of battle, his grey eye blazing with the anger 
 and rapture of the fight, it should remember, Taylor the man, mingling 
 like a father or brother with his soldiers, sharing crust and cup with them 
 and weeping the heroic tears of manhood, when disease or death, rends 
 them from his side. 
 
 Which most touches your heart, Napoleon the Emperor, sharing the 
 imperial purple, with the doll of legitimacy, Maria Louisa, or Napoleon, 
 the Man, stealing to the chamber of his divorced wife, true-souled Jose 
 phine, weeping at her feet and sealing his remorse with burning tears ? 
 
28 . THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Let us listen to the Legend of the Dead Woman of Palo Alto. 
 
 While in the camp of the wilderness, Zachary Taylor, sleeps the 
 ru^ed sleep of warrior toil ; yonder, in the almost oriental city Matamoras, 
 a young girl in her virgin slumber, with her voluptuous form, couched on 
 soft pillows, dreams a sweet wild dream, amid the war of battle, and hear 
 the ano-el voices of memory, speak out, amid the hurricane of fiery shells. 
 
 Amid all the terrors of that fearful night she slept a strangely beauti 
 ful woman, with her loose white robe, gleaming through the intervals of 
 her long flowing raven hair. 
 
 It was a luxurious chamber, paved with mosaic slabs of marble, with a 
 cool fountain, bubbling from a bath, sunken in the centre of the place, 
 while four slender pillars supported the ceiling. Toward the river a 
 single large window, with a balcony defended by bars toward the gar 
 den, a wide doorway, concealed by silken curtains, which tossed like a 
 banner to the impulse of the night-breeze. Through the doorway, you 
 pass down steps of cool marble, into garden all s'hade and bloom, 
 fountains and flowers. Around the walls, were grouped vases of alabaster, 
 blooming with all manner of rare and delicate plants, from the wild blos 
 soms of the prairie to the gaudy cactus, plucked from the steeps of dizzy 
 cliffs, or gathered from the green spots of desert wastes. 
 
 But the most beautiful thing in all the place, was the AVoman who 
 slumbered there ! 
 
 Behold her ! 
 
 A small lamp, suspended from the pillar, flings its rays over her couch ; 
 a small bed, covered with folds of dark cloth, edged with gold. Beholf 
 her ! One of those wild, warm natures, born of the tempests and sunshine 
 of the volcanic south ; her cheek a rich, clear brown ; her eye-lashes long 
 and dark ; her bosom full and passionate, her hair, flowing from the fore 
 head to the waist, a shower of midnight tresses, gleaming and darkening 
 over a robe of snow. 
 
 As she slumbers there, her cheek resting upon her left arm, you may see 
 the dark brow, gather in a frown, the ripe warm lips compress with alter 
 nate fear and scorn, the bosom, agitated at first with a gentle motion, and 
 then rushing with one wild throb into light. The loose white robe falls 
 aside, and you behold that young breast, beating with violent emotion. 
 
 She has passed from the cool waters of the bath, to the agitated slum 
 bers of the couch. A loose robe, flowing from the white shoulders to the 
 feet shoulders and feet, are naked and white as marble encircles with 
 its easy folds, her young and voluptuous form. 
 
 Let us approach her couch, let us bend over this sleeping woman, and 
 listen to the words which fall quivering, as though each word was a drop 
 of blood, from her young lips. 
 
 Strange revelation ! Even in her sleep she tells the story of her life. 
 
 Even while the lull of the fountain, is heard in the awful intervals of 
 
THE DEAD WOMAN OF PALO ALTO. 29 
 
 the cannonade, while the perfume of the flowers, mingles with the smell 
 of powder and blood, this beautiful child of the South, in her tempestuous 
 dream, beating gently her breast all the while, with her fingers, reveals to 
 us the history of her heart. 
 
 At first the dream bewilders us, with its light and gloom, its pictures 
 of loving beauty and sombre sublimity. 
 
 We stand in the shadows of the Cathedral aisle. It is the evening 
 hour. The setting sun flings one broad belt of light, over yonder altar 
 of solid silver, with the candelabra of gold above it, and the balustrade of 
 precious metals, extending on either side. Count the wealth of a fairy 
 legend, and you have it here, in this solemn cathedral. And yonder 
 smiling sadly over all the display of wealth stands the golden Image of 
 the Carpenter's Son of Nazareth, and by his side, beams the silver face 
 of his Divine Mother. It is an awful place, confounding us, by its strange, 
 almost gorgeously grotesque architecture, its mingling of the Aztec with 
 the Catholic faith, its almost blasphemous conjunction of Montezuma and 
 Jesus. 
 
 This Cathedral of Mexico, in which we now stand, occupies the very 
 spot, where stood hundreds of years ago, the temple of the bloody God 
 of Anahuac. Here, where Jesus smiles, once writhed the human sacri 
 fice, with his heart torn palpitating from his breast. 
 
 But hold ! A vision breaks upon us now. Even as the shadows of 
 night descend, as the deep serenity of this holy place, is only broken by 
 the bustle of the gay plaza without, as the everlasting light, burns near 
 the face of Jesus behold ! 
 
 Two figures approach and bend before the altara Virgin in the bloom 
 of her southern life, dark in eyes, eyebrows and hair, luxuriant in the 
 fiery tinge of her clear brown cheeks, kneels beside a soldier, dressed in 
 the costume of the northern land, his chesnut hair, curling round a 
 thoughtful brow. 
 
 They kneel there, impressive types of widely contrasted races He, 
 born of the land of Washington, a wanderer from the hills of Virginia 
 She, a voluptuous daughter of the land of the Aztec, with the old Cas- 
 tilian blood, mingling in her veins with the blood of Montezuma. 
 
 They kneel there ; the awful cathedral forms their marriage canopy. 
 The Priest in his white robes, scatters from his withered hands, a bless 
 ing on the strangely wedded pair. He looks into her face, his clear 
 hazel eye, drinking those eyes of hers, which seem at once to combine, 
 all that is dark and bright, in the whole world. 
 
 But at this moment we are still in the maiden's dream, you will re 
 member a footstep rings along the aisle, and a stern man, with snowy 
 hair, a bronzed cheek, and a white mustache, strides slowly forward, his 
 eye burning with the wounded pride of an old Castilian. 
 
 He tears his child from the embrace of her husband you see a wo- 
 
30 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 man's form flung fainting by the altar, you see the figure of the husband, 
 borne rudely along the aisles by mortal hands, and mists and darkness 
 close the strange sad vision. 
 
 Yes, the maiden's dream ends here with the stern old Castilian, stand 
 ing in triumphant scorn, alone with the affrighted Priest and the un 
 conscious daughter, alone in that place of religion and gold, the Cathedral 
 of Mexico. Even as the mists close over their forms, the light glitters 
 upon his uniform tinselled with stars, and the breeze gently moves the 
 Avhite folds of her bridal dress. 
 
 1 With the dream of the past, the beautiful girl, sleeping in this perfumed 
 chamber of the Matamoras home, moves her round arms and uncloses her 
 dark eyes. She starts to her feet, with her long hair showering half-way 
 down her voluptuous form. She stands with bare feet on the marble floor, 
 and presses her hand to her forehead. 
 
 " Only six month ago" Not in English, but in the rich, sonorous Cas 
 tilian she speaks " And I knelt by his side, before the Altar of the grand 
 Cathedral. My father tore him from my grasp ; this lover, this husband of 
 mine, rots in prison at this very hour. And I already married, must by 
 to-morrow's light, wed another. Such is the decree of my father ! Have 
 a care proud Castilian ! The blood of my mother, which flows in my 
 veins, the blood of the Montezumas, may foil you, even yet !" 
 
 She paces along the chamber, her white robe flowing to her feet. With 
 cue hand she dashes aside the mass of dark hair from her brow, while 
 that face, so passionate in its warm beauty, is softened in every outline 
 by a sad and tender memory. 
 
 " Even yet I remember it ! Recovering from my swoon, I clung to the 
 arm of my father and passed from the Cathedral ; on the threshold a beg 
 gar girl started forward and clasped my arm. Even in her rags, she was 
 beautiful that child of the Ltpe.ro* born in the hut, and nourished into 
 bloom, by hopeless misery. My father started She is the very image 
 of my daughter of Inez !' he whispered. Meanwhile that poor giii, 
 still clung to my arm, gazing in my face, with her large eyes as she 
 whispered' Fear not proud lady ! For I do not fear, I do not despair ! 
 I, that have nothing but rags and misery, the leper's crust and the leper's 
 straw, do not despair, for I am a daughter of Montezuma .'" 
 
 A strange memory ! The beggar girl of Mexico and the proud lady 
 Inez-one in rags and the other in lace and gold and yet resembling 
 each other, like twin copies of some beautiful statue. 
 
 You should have seen the proud elevation of this woman's form, as 
 with her dark hair, streaming over her shoulders and down her back, she 
 exclaimed 
 
THE DEAD 'WOMAN OF PALO ALTO. 31 
 
 " I, I, too am a daughter of the race of Montezuma !" 
 
 And all the while, as she paced along in that place of fountains and 
 flowers, the thunder of the cannonade, mingled with the music of the 
 pattering fountains, and the smell of powder, choked the perfume of the 
 flpwers. 
 
 " There is no hope !" 
 
 Terrible words, when spoken by a beautiful and helpless woman, com 
 muning with her own heart ! No hope ! To-morrow, Inez at once a 
 "Wife and Virgin, would te dragged to the altar perchance amid the roar 
 of battle and married to a man, whom her soul abhorred. 
 
 Even as she spoke, the silken curtain, which waved from the window, 
 leading to the balcony, was thrust aside, and a strange form stood there, 
 framed in the curtain folds as in a veil. It was the form of a young man, 
 attired in the plain blue undress of an American officer, which revealed 
 every outline of his slight, yet sinewy frame. His face was very pale, 
 yet strongly featured, the white forehead encircled by clustering curls, and 
 the eyes, gazing with deep and steady light, from beneath the compressed 
 brow ! 
 
 As silent as a corse, he stood, regarding the maiden with that unvarying 
 gaze. 
 
 She sank on one knee, muttering a prayer, and invoking the name of 
 Mary, the Virgin Mother. It was a vision that she saw a vision of the 
 ghost of her dead Husband. 
 
 This beautiful woman, on her knee, the white robe falling from her 
 shoulders, and revealing half the beauty of her bosom that silent figure, 
 standing in the window, his deep eye glaring from a face pale as death, 
 formed together, with the light and shadow, the fountains and flowers, a 
 strangely impressive picture. 
 
 Her senses fled from her, even as the cross which she clasped, glided 
 from her stiffening fingers. 
 
 When again she looked up from that death-like trance, she felt her 
 young bosom beating warmly against a manly heart, she felt the smile of 
 her Husband upon her face. 
 
 " Come !" said the VIRGINIAN, speaking low in the deep Castilian 
 " There is no time for a long story I have dared death to meet you, and 
 we must dare death again, ere we escape from this place." 
 
 Girding her gently in his arms, clasping the waist, which quivered in 
 his embrace he bore her through the curtain, and they stood upon the 
 balcony, with their eyes dazzled by a picture, at once horrible and 
 sublime. 
 
 That mansion of Matamoras, stood but a short distance from the river, 
 from which it was separated by a garden, whose fountains sparkled through 
 arcades of flowers. 
 
 The river wound before them, a fiery track of light. 
 
32 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Yonder arises Fort Brown, the Banner of the Stars, waving out in red 
 light, from the background of the midnight sky. Around that beleagued 
 fort, darkens the Mexican army you see them, Ranchero and Soldier, 
 spread by thousands along the river shore. 
 
 But the sky was the most fearful sight of all. It was like an immense 
 pall, stretched over the universe, with fearful hieroglyphics traced upon it 
 by the blaze of a volcano. 
 
 And the light of the blazing sky, was thrown upon the face of the beau 
 tiful girl, who clung to the breast of her American husband. His pale 
 face glows with crimson ; her olive cheek, as with a burning blush of 
 passion. Even her white robe and black hair, are tinted with fiery gleams 
 of scarlet. 
 
 They stand upon the balcony, while the thunder of the cannon shakes 
 the earth, and the hoarse murmur of the Mexican army, swells terribly in 
 each interval of the night battle. That river, crowded with boats, that 
 shore darkened by legions, whose lances glitter like torches of flame, that 
 fort, defended by three hundred men, its banner waving on, through the 
 lightning of battle, it was a sight to fire the blood, and make the heart 
 leap, to mingle in the hurricane. 
 
 " They are there, my countrymen fighting on, -when hope is gone !" 
 cried the VIRGINIAN, " Inez, you will go with me ? With me, over the 
 river, with me, through the roar of battle, with me into the shades of the 
 chaparral ?" 
 
 It was a terrible sight, that flashed before the maiden's eyes, and yet 
 with the warm blood, glowing in her cheek, she answered, " I will !" 
 
 Down, front the balcony, by the ladder that quivers beneath its burden, 
 down into the shadows of the garden, she girded by his arm, her snowy 
 robe fluttering loosely around her queenly form. 
 
 They are lost to sight, but a step resounds within the chamber, and an 
 old man strides madly forth upon the balcony, into the light of the can 
 nonade. 
 
 Gaze upon that tall form, clad in the Mexican warrior costume, green 
 faced with gold upon that bronzed face, wrinkled with age, the white 
 mustache covering the compressed lips, the eyes shooting frenzy from 
 the lowering brow, and pray for the young girl and her lover, her 
 husband ! 
 
 The old man stands upon the balcony, quivering with rage, the deep 
 curses trembling from his lips. For there is a boat upon the river, a fra 
 gile skiff, that glides over the glowing waves bearing two forms to the op 
 posite shore the young Virginian and his Mexican bride ! 
 
 " Curses ! They near the opposite shore ! Ha ! That shell it bursts 
 above their heads it crushes them into the red waves ! A cloud of smoke 
 it is gone ! Curses ! They are there again, speeding toward the shore ! 
 May the fiend drive the bullet to his heart ! He leads forth from the 
 
THE DEAD WOMAN OF PALO ALTO. 33 
 
 bashes by the shore, his black steed they mount together rushing 
 through our ranks, he flies !" 
 
 And as the old man, sent up from the bitterness of his heart, a curse 
 upon his child, that American on the black horse, dashed through the 
 Mexican ranks, while the white robe of his bride floated over the dark 
 skin of the steed, and wrapped their forms as in a mantle of snow. 
 
 " Huzza !" he cried in defiance, as the shot rained like hail about his 
 horse's feet " Blaze on ! I go to the Camp of Taylor, I go to bring 
 succor for the beleagued fort 1" 
 
 It is a glorious thing to feel a battle steed, as black as death, bound be 
 neath you, like a shell hurled from a mortar, it is a glorious thing to see 
 the glare of battle, enfolding you like a curtain, to hear its thunder, yelling 
 like the earthquake from the volcano's throat, but to ride through the 
 fury of a battle, at dead of night, a black steed bounding beneath you, 
 while a beautiful woman quivers in your arms it makes the heart swell 
 and the blood burn like a flame ! ..-., i 
 
 Long upon the balcony, stood the old Mexican Chieftain, gazing ot 
 upon the Fort, which stood boldly out, in the fierce light of the cannon 
 ade, nor upon the shore thronged with the legions of Mexico, nor upon 
 the roof of Matamoras, black with spectators of the midnight battle but 
 upon the dark chaparral, where his eye had seen the last flutter of his 
 daughter's snowy robe. 
 
 Did you ever read of Montezuma ? 
 
 Did you ever read of that Monarch, with the olive cheek, who sate 
 upon the Throne of *Tenochtitlan, three hundred years ago, the last of a 
 long line of kings, surrounded by kneeling nobles, and served at the fes 
 tival table, by groups of beautiful women, dark-eyed and passionate 
 daughter of the south ? 
 
 Did you ever hear of the strange land of Anahuac over which he 
 reigned, a land magnificent with its mountains of snow and fire, its vallies 
 of fruitfulness and bloom, its clear, calm lakes mirroring beautiful cities, 
 its awful Religion, smoking on every altar, with human blood ? 
 
 How this land fell beneath the Spaniard, how the bloody Prophet, 
 whose coming had been announced by the Aztec priests for hundreds of 
 years, came in the person of the stern bigot, chivalric soldier, Hernan 
 Cortes you have read it all. 
 
 AVhen the empire of Montezuma fell, and the sad emperor, who had 
 been conquered by Fate, not by man, yielded up the last throb of her 
 broken heart, his blood still beat in the veins of his daughters, who were 
 joined in marriage with the proudest of the Castilian nobility. 
 
 * Aztec name of the city of Mexico. 
 4 
 
g4 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 It is of some of the descendants of these marriages of the Spaniard 
 and the Aztec noble, that we now purpose to speak. 
 
 You remember the horrible religion of old Mexico ? That creed of 
 blood which raised its vast altar in every city, and led its human victim, 
 to the place of the sacrifice, and flung his quivering heart, torn smok 
 ing from the body, in the face of its Devil-God. 
 
 A creed in fact, which in its atrocious details, all acted, in the name of 
 a Devil, almost rivals some of those barbarous corruptions of the Christ 
 ian faith, whose bloody sacrifices of human hearts, have been acted in 
 the name of Jesus and of God. 
 
 }i You remember that eternal flame, which burned on the altar of Monte- 
 zuma, bearing with its clouds of white smoke and radiant light, a silent 
 testimony to the immortality of the Aztec faith ? 
 
 That flame, was first lighted, when the Ancestors of Montezuma, 
 hundreds of years before his day, came swarming from the north, upon 
 the fertile valley of Mexico. It burned on for ages, until the time of 
 Cortes, when it was supposed to be forever quenched, in the last baptism 
 of blood, offered by him upon its altar. 
 
 But it was never quenched, that awful fire of Montezuma ! While the 
 Spaniard, crowded Mexico with his legions, and built his altars upon the 
 ruins of Aztec Teocalli, certain tribes of the old people, true to their race 
 and their religion, fled to the mountain and the wilderness, bearing with 
 them, flaming torches, which had been lighted at the eternal fire. 
 
 That fire has never once gone out, through the long course of three 
 hundred and twenty-six years. It burns on at the present hour, as it 
 burned in the days of Montezuma. 
 
 Where the ravine is dark and horrible, where the mountain threatens 
 you with death, if you dare approach its summit of eternal snow, where 
 the wilderness extends, fenced in from civilization by impenetrable thick 
 ets, swarming with wild beasts there, may you still discover, the eternal 
 fire of Montezuma. 
 
 Torches, lighted at this flame, have been brought forth, to the gaze of 
 the white man, on certain occasions, since the conquest of Cortes. 
 
 Whenever danger to the Spaniard, hovers in the air, those torches are 
 seen, fashing from the tops of the mountains, from the shadows of the 
 ravine ! 
 
 When the Hero-Priest Hidalgo, descended from the Aztec race, 
 raised the standard of revolt, and declared the soil of Anahuac, free from 
 European despotism, that torch blazed in the faces of the Spaniards and 
 lit them to their bloody graves. 
 
 It blazed again, ere the battle of Palo Alto. We will journey into the 
 wilderness and behold its light. In the wilderness of Chaparral and 
 prairie, which extends from the shores of the Rio Grande, there are many 
 desert wilds, scarcely ever trodden by the foot of the white man. Stunted 
 
THE DEAD WOMAN OF PALO ALTO. 35 
 
 trees, lacing their gnarled limbs together, with their trunks joined in one, 
 by thickly grown vines, form an impenetrable barrier, between those 
 deserts and the step of the civilized intruder. Even the Ranchero, that 
 combination of the worst vices of civilization and barbarism, dare not 
 profane these silent solitudes. 
 
 On the morning of the Eighth of May, 1846, we will journey for miles 
 through these impenetrable thickets, and in the centre of the wild, behold 
 a scene, which but a short distance removed from the cities of the white 
 race, is yet stamped with all the traces of the people of Montezuma. 
 
 In the centre of the wilderness, a space some two miles square, bloomed 
 like a garden. Do you see its fields of tall green corn, waving yonder, 
 near a wilderness of fig trees, rich with their tempting fruit ? Here, the 
 pomegranates hidden among large green leaves, meets your eye, and there, 
 dangling from the vines, the grapes come quivering into light. Wherever 
 you turn your gaze, all is bloom, verdure, fruitfulness. There are birds 
 of radiant plumage upon the trees, and flowers, that make you forget the 
 rainbow scattered everywhere along the sod. 
 
 Do you distinctly see this garden in the wilderness, hemmed in on 
 every side by the impassable chaparral ? 
 
 Gaze in its centre, and you will behold a circle of huts, formed of reeds 
 woven together, like basket work, cemented with clay, and defended from 
 the sun and rain, by a roof of vines and blossoms. 
 
 The tall corn waves greenly about them, and the fig floats its perfume 
 through their narrow doors, and the meek-eyed dove of the tropics, a 
 gentle thing, looking like the holy spirit of home, murmurs its low music 
 in the vines above the roof. Altogether, the quiet picture, blooming under 
 the morning sun, in the wilderness, steels on us, like a dream from Hea 
 ven, a delicious leaf, cut freshly from the book of eternal beauty. 
 
 Here dwells one of those remnants of the Aztec people, which have 
 been hidden in the desert, from the eye of the white man, for three hun 
 dred years. You see the dark-faced men, with long black hair, stand 
 before the doors of their homes the tawny children playing among the 
 flowers the brown Women, with large lustrous eyes, gathering the rich 
 fruitage of tree and field. 
 
 But the object in the centre of the desert village, that mass of stone, 
 piled up, rock on rock, until it swells far over the roof into the serene 
 upper air? 
 
 Ascend those steps toil slowly up the rugged stairway stand upon 
 the summit gaze upon the village that blooms below ! 
 
 But the fire, that burns upon the summit of this mound of rocks, that 
 clear flame, burning beneath the shelter of a large flat stone, supported 
 by two masses of granite ? 
 
 This mound of rocks, is one of the last altars of the Aztec race; a 
 
36 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 TEOCALLI of that faith of blood, which offered its victims in the days of 
 old. 
 
 That fire, is the sacred flame, never once extinguished since the days 
 of Montezuma. 
 
 Before that fire, crouching on the rock, sits an old man, with long black 
 hair floating down his back, while a loose robe of coarse white cotton, 
 enfolds his withered form. 
 
 The last priest of Montezuma ! 
 
 From early childhood he has watched that fire, fed it with fragrant 
 wood, and gazed upon its flames, as though it was a God. Before his 
 day, his father watched it ; when he is gone, his son, tall and straight as 
 the desert palm, will assume the sacred duty. So from age to age, from 
 father to son, burns on the flame of Montezuma ! 
 
 Does not the image of this peaceful people, dwelling alone by their rude 
 altar, in the wilderness, never trodden by the white man, gathering their 
 bread and attire, from the maize and cotton of the field, their knowledge 
 of God, from the traditions of their fathers, at once bewilder and enchain 
 you ? 
 
 The day wears on they have come from the fields to partake of their 
 simple meal the old man still sits upon the mound, watching the sacred 
 flame ! 
 
 The day wears on ! Hark ! From the east a sound like thunder. It 
 is the cannon of Palo Alto, the old man rises, listens, and thinks it thunder. 
 He knows nothing of the wars or battles of the white race. 
 
 The day wears on. The sun is yonder in the west. The mound of 
 rocks flings its shadow over the village. Still the sound of thunder to 
 the east, thunder, deep and blooming, from a sky, without a cloud. 
 
 The affrighted people of the Aztec village, throng to the altar, the 
 strong-limbed men, the brown women with the lustrous eyes, the tawny 
 children scattering flowers. 
 
 They seek to propitiate their God, by a sacrifice. That thunder 
 from a cloudless sky terrifies their souls. A dove, one of those gentle 
 doves of home, is the destined victim. Look ! It flutters on the large 
 flat stone above the flame, and murmurs its sad music, even as the hand 
 of the priest is laid upon its glossy neck. 
 
 A prayer in the Mexican tongue, a wild and momentous hymn to the 
 strange deity. 
 
 It is a picture to remember. That solitary mound rising above the 
 hamlet in the wilderness, its huge shadow, blackening over the fields 
 that erect old man, upon the summit, the centre of a crowd of dark- 
 skinned worshippers the bird fluttering in his hand, the sacramental 
 knife raised over his head. 
 
 At the moment a cry quivers from every lip, and every eye is turned 
 toward the east. 
 
THE DEAD WOMAN OF PALO ALTO. 37 
 
 There, stealing from the forest, comes the form of a woman, her dark 
 hair floating over her snowy robes, while her large eyes roll from side to 
 side, with a look of fear. 
 
 Her dress is torn by the briers ; her hair tangled by the perfumed blos 
 som rent from the wild vine ; she totters on toward the altar 
 
 It is the Lady INEZ, daughter of the stern Mexican General, wife of 
 the gallant Virginian. 
 
 "Within the same hour, a scene of deep interest took place on the field 
 of PALO ALTO. 
 
 It was in the last hour of that fight when the battle, which we will 
 shortly look upon in all its details, was about to close that a solitary 
 Mexican officer, flying from the field, spurred his bay horse through the 
 devious path of the chaparral. 
 
 Look yonder, and by the light of the solitary sun, you may behold his 
 pursuer, a young American, mounted on a dark steed. With the uniform 
 torn in ribands from his right arm, he brandishes his sword it drops 
 blood upon his broad chest and dashes on. 
 
 He nears the Mexican, he is within twenty paces, when the flying sol 
 dier is about to leave the path, and seek the shadows of the chaparral. 
 The American raises his pistol fires ! The bay-horse totters to and fro, 
 and falls on his forefeet, precipitating his rider on the sod. 
 
 Beside his dying horse whose life-blood wells from the fatal wound 
 that rider stands and confronts the enemy. The American starts in 
 his saddle, and pulls his bridle-rein, throwing his dark horse, back on his 
 haunches, as he beholds him. 
 
 For in that American officer stained from head to foot with blood, you 
 recognize the pale face and full deep eyes of the VIRGINIAN, husband of 
 the Lady Inez. Look upon that Mexican, his green uniform rent with 
 sword thrusts, his white moustache, dyed with crimson drops, his bronzed 
 face traversed by a fearful wound, and you behold her father. 
 
 Words of deep meaning were spoken there in that lonely chaparral. 
 
 " Yield, General !" cried the VIRGINIAN in Spanish. " You are faint 
 with wounds. I will not fight with the father of my wife." 
 
 There was something terrible in the silent malignity which shone from 
 the old man's eyes. 
 
 " You are mounted," he quietly said " My horse is dying " and then 
 wiping the blood from his sword blade with his left hand, grasped the 
 hilt with his right, and stood prepared for a deadly fight " Come!" he cried 
 in the settled tone of a mortal hatred " You escaped from the prison of 
 Mexico, but cannot escape me !" 
 
 It was interesting to notice the conduct of that young Virginian, whose 
 blue uniform was in many places turned to red, by the blood of his foes. 
 He quietly dismounted, flung the rein on the neck of his dark steed, wiped 
 
38 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 the battle sweat from his face, and then struck the point of his sword into 
 
 the sod. 
 
 He then calmly advanced along the path, with the wall of the chaparral 
 on either side. Stern and unrelenting, the old General awaited him. 
 
 " General you see me, unarmed, defenceless before you !" said the 
 Virginian advancing " Let me ask you once for all why do you pursue 
 me with this unrelenting hatred? I came to your Mexican home, a stran 
 ger from the far north, and was grateful for your generous hospitality. I 
 met your daughter we loved were joined in marriage before the altar 
 of your solemn cathedral. Why hurl me from your daughter's arms, into 
 a prison, only reserved for the vilest outcast ? Why, even as I rotted in 
 the dungeon, did you drag my wife from the city, force her to accompany 
 you in your march, and last night bid her prepare, for the miserable nup 
 tials which were to take place to day? Come be friends with me in 
 this hour, when you are forced to leave the field, a fugitive, I will aid 
 your flight !" 
 
 There was an earnestness in the young man's tone, that would have 
 touched the hardest heart. Frankness was written on his pale face, and 
 honor spoke in the gleam of his large hazel eye. 
 
 "Where is my daughter?" said the Mexican General, in a low voice, 
 but still keeping his hand on the hilt of his sword. 
 
 " Last night, when I bore the message of Fort Brown, to our General 
 that message which called for help, in direst extremity I left Inez in a 
 ranche (farm house) some few hundred yards to the west of this place. 
 When the battle is over, I will join her again." 
 
 "Coward! You will never join her again! After I have laid you 
 dead upon the sod, I myself will go and bear your message to my 
 daughter." . 
 
 With a ferocious look in his eye, the General dashed upon the unarmed 
 man, making a thrust, with all the vigor of his right arm. To say the 
 least, there was something cowardly in this movement, indeed, it looked 
 very much like Assassination. 
 
 The VIRGINIAN darted aside, but the sword passed between his side 
 and his left arm, transfixing a piece of his coat. 
 
 As quick as thought he turned, darted on the Mexican who had been 
 almost thrown on his face by the impetus of his ineffectual thrust and 
 clutched his throat with a grasp of iron. 
 
 " This your Mexican chivalry ! To stab an unarmed man !" 
 
 He shook him fiercely in that tightening grasp the General made an. 
 effort to shorten his grasp of the sword, and use it as a dagger, but the 
 blade fell from his handhe sank backward on the sod, with the knee of 
 the VIRGINIAN on his breast. 
 
 He uttered an incoherent groanhis eyes began to start from their 
 sockets. 
 
i 
 
 THE DEAD WOMAN OF PALO ALTO. 39 
 
 The VIRGINIAN, touched with pity released his grasp, but seized the 
 fallen sword. 
 
 " I hate you" slowly said the Mexican General, raising himself on 
 one hand, while his face grew deathly pale " Not so much because you 
 stole my daughter, as that you are one of the accursed race, whose des 
 tiny it is, to despoil our land, extinguish our name, annihilate our flag !" 
 
 He tore open the breast of his coat, and disclosed a mortal wound, 
 which had been killing him, slowly, for hours. 
 
 " If there is one word, that may express the hatred of a dying man, 
 better than another, I fling it in your face and curse you with that breath, 
 whose passing, leaves my lips cold forever !" 
 
 There was something so terrible in these last words of a dying man, 
 uttered with rattling breath and a pale face, deformed by hideous contor 
 tions, that the American soldier shrunk from his touch, and gazed upon 
 him in silent horror. 
 
 He never spoke again, save to murmur, in his Spanish tongue 
 " Water ! Water !" 
 
 Reaching forth his arms, he grasped the blade of his sword which the 
 VIRGINIAN held kissed the hilt, and fell back, with a torrent of blood, 
 streaming from his mouth. 
 
 The VIRGINIAN turned to search for water ; the murmuring of a brook 
 let reached his ears ; he left the dying man and rushed along the path. 
 Turning to the east, he saw the lakelet, spreading calm and beautiful in 
 the depths of the chaparral. Scarce a ray of sunlight, streamed over its 
 dark and tranquil bosom. 
 
 Our young soldier bent down, with his helmet in his hand, its horse 
 hair plume sweeping to the ground, and filled it with the cool water, when 
 another sight palsied his hand, and turned his face to the color of ashes 
 and clay. 
 
 Before him, in a nook formed by the foliage, on the soft, short grass, 
 lay the dead body of a human being. 
 
 It was a woman, naked as Eve before she fell, with the blood stream 
 ing from her white bosom. As she lay there, her hair so intensely 
 dark, with a glossy richness almost every wave and curl fell over her 
 arms and clotted in some places with her blood, streamed in masses over 
 the sod. 
 
 Not a vestage of apparel was there, upon her form, to denote her rank, 
 or enable the living to identify the beautiful dead. 
 
 For she was very beautiful. Had you seen the matchless outline of 
 her young limbs, chaste yet voluptuous, her bosom, just blossoming into 
 bloom, her olive cheek, which pillowed the dark eyelashes, her lips, 
 which death had not despoiled of their vermillion you would have knelt 
 by her, and gazed for hours upon the silent beauty of the murdered girl. 
 
4Q THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Murdered? By whom ? Where the weapon ? Where the traces of 
 
 the wrong ? 
 
 The leaves were above her, the lakelet stretched away from her feet, 
 and the blood welled slowly from the wound in her heart. 
 
 The Virginian forgot the dying man, dashed his helmet away, and sank 
 beside the dead girl. 
 
 " Inez !" and bending down, he earnestly perused those features, sealed 
 forever in the sleep of death. 
 
 Meanwhile but a few paces distant, the Mexican General started into a 
 sitting posture, with the blood pouring from his mouth, he rushed along 
 the path, beheld for a moment the form of the dead woman knew it, for 
 a horrible agony writhed over his face and then fell forward on his face 
 dead. 
 
 While 1 his ashy face, was stamped with a despair that fast fevered into 
 madness, the VIRGINIAN looked from the naked form to the dead soldier, 
 and murmured 
 
 " The Murderer and the Murdered !" 
 
 It was night in the wilderness ; the groans of a thousand hearts, quiv 
 ering in mental agony, palpitated through the chaparral, from the shores 
 of the Rio Grande, to the bloody rivulet of Palo Alto. 
 
 It was night and through the wall of woven thorns, a solitary horse, 
 dashed like a shell, hurled from the blazing mortar a solitary horse, his 
 nostrils quivering as though they shot forth, jets of flame, his dark hide 
 flecked with shots of foam, his bloody mane, waving over his eyes and 
 about his arching neck. Those eyes seem to burn in the darkness, like 
 the meteors of a swamp. 
 
 The Rider ! Throat bare, brow uncovered, hair damp with sweat and 
 clotted with blood, he shook his clenched hands on high, sank his spurs 
 into the flanks of the horse and whirled away. Ha ! Ha ! how he shouted 
 in horrible laughter, while the thorns tore his flesh, as though they were 
 living things, poisonous with venom, and the gnarled boughs struck his 
 breast, as though they were the arms of warriors fired with battle rage. 
 
 The chaparral darkened round him, a wall of prickly pear the sod 
 beneath was broken into pits and ravines wherever he turned his burn 
 ing eyes, was nothing but that impassible desert, upon whose wilderness 
 of stunted trees, cold and dimly fell the night of the midnight stars. 
 
 He was Mad, the brave Virginian. You may talk of hearts, if you 
 please, and of minds, steeled against the fiercest sorrow, however vulture- 
 like the beak, with which it may drink our heart's blood, but show me 
 the soul, that can gaze without madness, upon this horrible vision ! A 
 young, a virgin wife, whose kiss was warm upon her husband's lips this 
 morning found at the setting of the sun, in the lonely chaparral, the 
 blood oozing slowly from her mangled breast, found a naked and dishon- 
 
THE DEAD WOMAN OF PALO ALTO. 41 
 
 ored thing, the peerless beauty of her uncovered form, only making 
 her death more horrible to look upon ! 
 
 For hours the young soldier, has thundered madly through the wild, 
 not caring whither his horse's footsteps turned, gnly so that the bore him 
 farther from the face of man, farther into the desert, the darkness and the 
 night. Madly he dashed along, and yet all the while, with a conscious 
 ness of his horrible calamity pervading his whole being, like the forked 
 lightning, quivering through the blackness of the thunder cloud. 
 
 At last after hours of mad wandering, he suffered the rein to fall on the 
 neck of his steed, his hands sank listlessly by his side, his head drooped 
 on his breast. The stupor had succeeded the frenzy of despair. 
 
 Slowly the horse wandered along, the Rider knew not, cared not 
 whither, while the moments of that night of agony, throbbed slowly away. 
 
 Hark ! The Virginian roused from his stupor, lifts his head in won 
 der. A low, deep monotonous chaunt breaks on the night. Look ! The 
 impenetrable wall of chaparral, gives place to a field of corn, whose broad 
 green leaves wave above the horse's head. 
 
 At once, the vision of a quiet group of homes in the wilderness, and the 
 delicious perfume of fruits and flowers, rush on the senses of the bewild 
 ered man. By the light of the stars he gazes wildly around, and suffers 
 the wounded, the bleeding steed to take his way. 
 
 Through the field of maize, by the wilderness of fig trees, among the 
 vines that trail luxuriantly over the ground, the horse wanders on. 
 
 At last what new wonder is this ? 
 
 Far above the roofs of that desert-girdled home, a light shines like a 
 star, and sheds a radiance, at once serene and vivid upon the air. 
 
 Is it a star, shining from the midnight sky ? Or, one of those wild 
 lights, which born of the atmosphere of the swamp, bewilder travellers 
 on their way, and lead them on to dtath ? 
 
 His eye grows accustomed to the darkness. That light shines from 
 the summit of a huge mound of rocks, and the forms of human things, 
 intervene between the eye and its steady blaze. 
 
 Again that deep chaunt, swelling through the night, like a requiem over 
 the dead ! 
 
 The bewildered traveller rushes forward, springs from his steed and 
 darts up the rocky steps of the mound, his eye glaring madly all the 
 while, his chesnut hair, hanging in bloody flakes, about his feverish brow. 
 
 A strange fancy has taken firm hold of his brain. He imagines him 
 self in one of the last retreats of the Aztec people, in that rude mound, 
 he sees a TEOCALLI, a bloody altar of the far gone time ; that flame is the 
 fire of Montezuma ; those forms, grouped between him and the light, the 
 figures of the sacrificial priests gloating over their victim's writhing form. 
 
 That victim oh ! the horrible frenzy made his blood run cold, hot a? 
 it was with the fever of madness his own wife, the lady Inez, whom he 
 
 5 
 
42 ' THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 had left a murdered and dishonored thing, in the shadow of the lonely 
 chaparral. 
 
 He ascended the mound of rocks, and stood with gasping breath upon 
 the Summit. A sight too wondrous for belief or words, met his silent 
 gaze. 
 
 They were Indian forms grouped upon the summit of the rock, men, with 
 stout arms and broad chests, women with olive cheeks and deeply lus 
 trous eyes, children with long black hair, about their tawny faces. In 
 dians did we say ? No ! To the bewildered traveller's eye, they looked 
 more like the Aztec people of three hundred and twenty six years ago. 
 They stood in a circle, their backs to his face, their visages bathed in the 
 red light, which sheltered by a huge flat stone, shone through the night 
 afar. 
 
 Slowly, on tip-toe the traveller drew nigh. 
 
 In the midst of the silent group, stood an old man, attired in a loose 
 robe of coarse cotton, gazing upon the object which held every eye 
 enchained. 
 
 Nearer drew the traveller, his heart choking his utterance, or he would 
 have groaned. 
 
 What struck him with surprise, was the universal expression which 
 reigned upon every face. Whether old man, or stout-armed Son of the 
 forest, or round limbed woman, or dark haired child, all wore one look. 
 It was pity, it was sympathy, it was love, yes, as the angels love ! It was 
 religion ! 
 
 Upon their rude faces, that look sat enthroned like a gem in the dust, 
 like one serene ray, in a night of universal cloud. 
 
 Hush every breath, as the maddened traveller, worried into a fiercer 
 agony, draws near, looks over their shoulders, feels the flame upon his 
 face, beholds the object which enchains every eye. 
 
 That chaunt, swelling low and deep from every lip, drowned the echo 
 of his step. 
 
 The sight that he saw a bleeding victim, disfigured by the knife ! No ! 
 
 A sleeping Woman, wrapped in a white robe, with her smiling face 
 warm cheeks, red lips, large lashes, and all framed in her darkly flow 
 ing hair ! 
 
 And the sleeping Woman, smiling in her calm repose, while the tawny 
 people, bent over her, as though she had dropped among them, from God, 
 was the Lady Inez, the wife whom we left a murdered thing in the dark 
 ness of the chaparral. 
 
 Softly she slumbered, the light of the eternal fire upon her face, the 
 blossoms gathered by little children's hands, wound among the tresses of 
 her beautiful hair. 
 
 It was a dream. Choking down the agony of his soul, he darted for 
 ward, knelt and gazed upon her. 
 
THE DEAD WOMAN OF PALO ALTO. 43 
 
 With one cry, the Indians shrank back, from that contrast his fren 
 zied face, her smiling countenance ! 
 
 It was her Ghost. He knew it. Afraid to touch the hand, which lay 
 with its white fingers unclosed, upon the rock, he gazed in the stern 
 silence of despair, upon that image of slumbering womanhood. 
 
 At last those lids were unclosed, those dark eyes met the light of his 
 own, the white robe, falling back, revealed the white shoulders and the 
 bosom of snow. The traveller darted forward there was a form palpi 
 tating upon his breast, a hand pillowed on his shoulder, masses of dark 
 hair waving about his face. 
 
 " MY HUSBAND !" 
 
 Was it a Ghost ? 
 
 That throb from the virgin bosom, kindling a heaven in his veins ah ! 
 such electric fire, never quivered from the breast of spirit or Ghost 
 before ! 
 
 And while the fire of Montezuma burned through the dark night, the 
 chaunt swelled on the air once more, and the Aztec people I see them, now, 
 upon the lonely mound, their faces bathed in red light, while all beyond 
 is darkness grouped wandering round the central figures, the Husband 
 on his knees, with his beautiful wife upon his breast, her dark hair, 
 waving over his shoulder. 
 
 Where is the thread to this mystery of the wilderness ? 
 
 At the setting of the sun, you show us the dead body of the Lady 
 Inez, laid naked and dishonored in the chaparral of Palo Alto, and at 
 midnight, we behold the Lady Inez, calmly slumbering, on the mound 
 of the wilderness, her smiling face, lighted by the eternal fire of Mon 
 tezuma ? 
 
 Here is all that ever was known of the dark history. 
 
 It was in the last hour of Palo Alto, when the cannon of Taylor, flamed 
 their lightning into the Mexican camp, that the beams of the declining 
 sun, stealing through the battle clouds, shone on the trappings and tinsel 
 of a gorgeous canopy, which towered in the heart of the dark chaparral. 
 
 Around this tent, the banquet fires were blazing, you see them smok 
 ing and flaming beneath the luscious viands, intended for the feast of vic 
 tory. When Arista has conquered Taylor, and bound him in chains, he 
 will come hither in royal state, and drink his iced wine, and feast on his 
 luxurious banquet, while the tri-colored flag of Mexico waves in triumph 
 over his head. 
 
 But unfortunately old Zachary is hard to conquer. Even as we look 
 upon the gaudy tents, with its ornaments glittering like diamonds in the 
 light, we hear the rush of Taylor's legions to the north, and the tramp 
 of the flying Mexicans to the south. 
 
 The lacqueys have left their banquet fire ; the sentinels their place by 
 
44 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 the tent. For a few moments, while the tide of battle rages all around 
 look ! how the smoke rolls yonder, up against the setting sun the camp 
 of Arista is silent as the grave. 
 
 In a moment the thunder of battle will envelope this place, in smoke 
 and flames, but ere that moment comes, we will behold a sad, a touching 
 scene. 
 
 Enter the tent of Arista. Pass through the gilded curtains, and behold 
 the scene which speads before you. 
 
 On the rich carpet, amid piles of scattered trunks, masses of charts 
 and papers, heaps of plate, solid silver and gold, behold the kneeling form 
 of a young, a beautiful girl. Attired in a garment of richest dyes, which 
 half-revealing the warm bosom, girdles her slender waist, and terminates 
 at her knees, displaying the sculptured proportions of her voluptuous 
 limbs, she kneels amid the scene of splendid havoc, clasps her hands and 
 raises her large dark eyes ! 
 
 While her bosom beats tumultuously into view, she prays, yes, in the 
 Spanish and the Mexican tongue, prays to the God of the Christian and 
 the God of Montezuma. 
 
 There is one portion of her costume, which imparts to her face and 
 form, a beauty almost divine. 
 
 A veil of fine lace, like a wreath of transparent mist, as white as snow, 
 flows from her forehead to her feet, with her long dark hair, and her bare 
 arms, gleaming through its bewitching folds. Jewels worth many a solid 
 piece of gold, sink and swell upon her breast, pearls which remind you 
 of a pure virgin's tears, gleam in circlets from her brow. 
 
 While the battle rages afar, she prays, not for herself but for her lover ! 
 
 Is it the Lady Inez, whom we behold ? 
 
 The same form : the same red ripeness on the lip, and voluptuous 
 swell in the outline of the form ; dark flowing hair, and large full eyes, 
 all the same ; it is the Lady Inez ! And yet we know, that at this very 
 moment, the Lady Inez, is far away, in the tangled mazes of the wilder 
 ness ! 
 
 Listen ! Amid the roar of the battle, thundering afar, we hear a foot 
 step, and presently the form of a young soldier, remarkable for his manly 
 beauty, appears at the doorway of the tent. Scarce twenty years old, a 
 dark mustache on lip, his bold features, relieved by long curls of jet-black 
 hair, he silently advances, while we behold his handsome uniform, torn 
 in fragments and spotted with blood. 
 
 He stands behind her, contemplating her form with a mingled look- 
 pity and passion ! Silently he unsheaths his dagger, poises it above her 
 head, turning his face away, prepares to strike 
 
 " The Battle," he cries in Spanish, Is lost and I will not leave you, 
 to the mercy of the foe !" 
 
 She lifts her eyes, and beholds at once her lover and the trembling dag- 
 
THE DEAD WOMAN OF PALO ALTO. 45 
 
 ger. Her cheek does not blench, but her bosom all at once, falls into 
 pulseless quietude. 
 
 " Kill, for I am thine, Francisco !" she says, raising her eyes, so lus 
 trously beautiful to his face. " Who lifted the beggar girl from the hut 
 of the LEPERO to the couch of the lord ? Who wound these pearls upon 
 her forehead, and bade these jewels gieam upon her bosom ? Who 
 shared with her, the love of her noble heart ? Francisco ! And to who 
 should the life of Mahitili belong, but to Francisco ?" 
 
 She spake in the strange Mexican tongue, which, the same as fell 
 from the lips of Montezuma, may be heard at this day in the mountains 
 of Mexico. 
 
 " But the battle is lost, Mahitili," shrieked her lover, quivering in 
 agony 
 
 " For myself I care not ; I will not fly ; to die upon the lost field is 
 all that is left for me. But you Mahitili you my own love, whom I 
 gathered from the huts of poverty, and wound to my heart you, who 
 have not hesitated to watch by my side, in the peril of pestilence, 
 nor to follow my footsteps into the crash of battle ! When I am dead 
 what will be your fate?" 
 
 Calmly she rose, and placed her small fingers on the blade of his 
 dagger. 
 
 " We will die together !" she said, enfolding him in her arms, until her 
 snowy veil, was stained with the blood which dyed his uniform. 
 
 " To die, at this hour, of all other hours ! To die, when I have just 
 discovered that you are no child of poverty and shame, but the lost 
 daughter of our brave General * * * * ! The twin-sister of his proud 
 and lovely child, with the blood of Montezuma, coursing through your 
 veins ! Nay stare not so wildly it is true as the Virgin's purity ! From 
 a dying soldier on the battle field, I heard the truth, and received from 
 his hands, the undeniable proofs ! Kill you now I cannot we will fly!" 
 
 He seized her to his arms, but the robber form of a Ranchero, with his 
 wide sombrero, and tawny face occupied the doorway of the tent. His 
 dark eyes shone with the lust of plunder ; one hand upon his rifle, one 
 upon his knife, he silently confronted the youthful pair. 
 
 " Here is gold " cries Francisco " Secure for me, one of those rider 
 less steeds, now running wild in the smoke of battle." 
 
 The Ranchero clutches the purse, hurries it in his bosom and dis 
 appears. They wait there, in Arista's tent, trembling with suspense and 
 watching for the return of the Ranchero. Mahitili nestling close to Fran 
 cisco's heart, like a bird to its nest, in the hour of storm, her white veil 
 and raven hair, encircling his form, as with a robe of strange texture and 
 beauty. 
 
 He does not return, the tawny Ranchero ; the battle swells nearer the 
 
46 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 tent. Hark ! That crash a cannon ball whizzes through the silken cur 
 taining, not an inch above their heads. 
 
 " Kneel, Mahitili ! Kneel and pray to the Virgin until I return 1 I will 
 secure a horse or die I" 
 
 He is gone, but scarcely has his form passed through the curtain folds, 
 when the Ranchero stands before the tent, holding a noble black horse by 
 the bridle rein. On his glossy hide smokes the blood and foam of 
 battle. 
 
 " Come !" exclaims the Ranchero, in barbarous Spanish. " He waits 
 for you, yonder in the chaparral !" 
 
 Without a suspicion, she bounds to the saddle, while the Ranchero 
 huddles the goblet and other vessels of silver and gold scattered along the 
 carpet, into a capacious sack, tied to his girdle. Mahitili does not behold 
 this movement. Her eyes have no gaze but for yonder cloud, which gather 
 ing volume, every moment, comes darkening over the chaparral, near and 
 nearer the tent of Arista. 
 
 The Ranchero, that half-savage, with the stalwart form, and bronzed 
 face, leaps in the saddle, and girding the trembling girl to his breast, bounds 
 away. 
 
 Away, into the narrow path, leading far up the darkness of the chapar 
 ral. Deeper the shadows gather them in, fainter and more faint, the sun 
 beams tremble over the dark horse, the Ranchero, and his voluptuous 
 burden. 
 
 " Francisco ?" she cried at last, quivering with an unknown fear. They 
 had turned a bend of the path, and a dark lakelet, scare enlivened by a 
 ray,, spread before them. " My Lover ?" 
 
 The Ranchero surveyed with one gloating look, the warm beauty of her 
 face, and the luxuriant swell of her bosom 
 
 " He is here !" he said, and Mahitili felt the blood grow cold, from her 
 heart to her fingers. 
 
 Not fifteen minutes passed, and on that sod, beside the dark lakelet, the 
 MEXICAN GENERAL, with the blood pouring from his mouth, the VIRGINIAN 
 with his heart turning to ice in his bosom, beheld the naked body of a 
 murdered and dishonored woman. 
 
 There was the print of horse's hoofs toward the lakelet, and a goblet 
 of sculptured gold, gleamed from the mire by its waters. 
 
 Francisco ? Look yonder by the light of the moon, and behold a young 
 form, stretched stifly on the prairie, his face buried in the sod, his arms 
 extended, the fingers clutching the bloody grass, while the head of a dead 
 steed rests upon his back ! 
 
 He found the horse for which he sought, it seems, and died with him. 
 Perchance in the very act of mounting, for the same cannon ball, which 
 
THE DEAD WOMAN OF PALO ALTO. 47 
 
 pierced the flanks of the steed, crushed the young soldier's chest into 
 mangled flesh and bones. 
 
 And as we look upon them, the jackal crawls from the bushes, and 
 snufis the air, turning from the dead warrior to the dead steed, and from 
 dead steed to the warrior, as if hesitating where to commence his horrible 
 meal. 
 
 How came the Bride of the VIRGINIA?,-, the guest of the rude Aztec 
 people 1 
 
 Alarmed by the thunder of the battle, she had strayed from the Ranche 
 where her husband left her, lost her way, and wandered deeper into the 
 chaparral until the hidden village bloomed upon her eyes. The old priest, 
 the hardy people, the brown women, all hailed her, with her white attire, 
 and beautiful form, as a good spirit sent from God ; even the little child 
 ren clung to her robe, and looked up fearfully into her large eyes. 
 
 Now, at the dead of night behold her, standing on that mound of rocks, 
 her husbands arm about her form, while the sacred flame bathes their faces, 
 and reveals the group of wondering Indians. 
 
 As we gaze, the old Priest who received from his father the tradition 
 and prophecy, and who will leave both to his son, as a holy heritage 
 bends down and lights a torch at the flame of Montezuma 
 
 " There is doom for the Spaniard in the air !" he chaunts as he waves 
 the torch " Even as he crushed the children of Anahuac in the days of 
 the old, so will a new race from the north, crush his people, in the dust 
 and blood of battle ! 
 
 " The Murder done by the Spaniard, returns to him again ; and the 
 blood that he once shed, rises from the ground, which will not hide it, 
 and becomes a torrent to overflow his rule, his people, and his altars ! 
 
 " Montezuma, from the shadows of ages, hear the cry of thy children ! 
 Arise ! Gaze from the unclosed Halls of Death, upon the Spaniard's, 
 ruin, and tell the ghosts to shout, as he dashes to darkness in a whirl 
 pool of blood : 
 
 " Montezuma, and all ye ghosts, sing your song .of gladness now, and 
 let the days of your sorrow be past ! Even, above the ocean of blood, 
 which flows from thy mouth, over the land of Anahuac, behold the Dove 
 of Peace, bearing her green leaves and white blossoms to the children of 
 the soil !" 
 
48 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 IV.-PALO ALTO. 
 
 AN old man, dressed in a brown coat, and mounted on a grey horse, 
 was riding through the chaparral, as the noonday sun shone over the wil 
 derness of prickly pear, darkening on either side, while far behind, in all 
 the windings of the narrow path, two thousand swords and bayonets, rose 
 dazzling into light. 
 
 Look yonder, and behold Zachary Taylor and his Men, on their march 
 to the field of Palo Alto ! 
 
 A broad brimmed hat of grey felt, shaded his ample brow. There was 
 no sword by his side, but he carried a spy glass in his right hand. The 
 old grey steed which bore him onward, was none of your fiery chargers, 
 shooting jets of flame from the quivering nostril and the dilating eye. 
 
 An ancient and favorite horse, dear to the warrior's heart, for he had 
 borne him, through many a bloody fight, through the everglades and 
 hammocks of Florida. 
 
 The head of the old man is slightly drooped, one hand placed within 
 the folds of his vest, while the other grasps the spy glass. As he rides 
 leisurely onward, you might take him for some substantial Pennsylva- 
 nian Farmer, mounted on a favorite nag, but gaze beneath the shadow of 
 his broad-brimmed hat, and you behold a Hero's soul, stamped upon his 
 face. A bronzed face, with the under lip slightly projecting, as the upper 
 is pressed against the teeth, the brows drawn downward, the eye dilating 
 until it seems to burn ! 
 
 The old man is thinking of Fort Brown, and of the few miles that in 
 tervene between him and the brave three hundred ; terrible miles, swarm 
 ing with six thousand Mexicans. 
 
 As he rides leisurely there, alone, with his own thoughts you see, 
 gleaming far ahead, the arms of the advance ground. Some few paces 
 behind, the staff officers, come riding in their chivalric array. Far in the 
 distance, winding with every turn and sweep of the road, the brave thou 
 sand soldiers, with sword and bayonet blazing over their heads, come 
 flashing on. There, you behold the cannon, flashing back the sunlight 
 from each brazen tube, there the bold war-horses, moving on with a mono 
 tonous tramp, and in the rear, the train of two hundred waggons formed 
 in a solid square, announce that the hour of battle is near 
 
 And near that train we behold a sight, which for a moment winds us from 
 the glitter of arms merely, a poor woman toiling painfully along, with 
 a babe in her arms. Her husband is in the ranks ; she knows there will 
 be a battle soon, and as she comes along, with the hot sun pouring on her 
 face, her tears fall slowly, and trickle down the face of her sleeping 
 babe. 
 
 It is a sight of absorbing interest that we behold. Two thousand men, 
 
PALO ALTO. 49 
 
 fainting under the hot sun, and tortured by thirst, which the brackish water 
 of the prairie only maddens, and yet panting onward to the conflict with 
 six thousand foes. 
 
 The blood which flowed in the Revolution, is about to flow in battle 
 affain, for there waves the plume of RIXGGOLD, the descendant of John 
 Cadwallader ; here you behold the stern, heroic face of TWIOGS, the Son 
 of the Hero of Georgia ; and in that young man, CHADBOURNE, with the 
 soldierly bearing, and eagle eye, you recognise the grand-son of Revolu 
 tionary LINCOLN. 
 
 The chivalry of the army glows before you, from the bearded face of 
 MAY, and you behold the backwoodsman of the olden time, created in the 
 sinewing form of CAPTAIN WALKER. And palpitating with the hunger of 
 battle, the brave two thousand thunder through the defile, their martial 
 array, relieved on either side by the chaparral resembling an immense 
 serpent, as it winds brilliantly along. 
 
 Meanwhile the old man Taylor, mounted on his grey steed, rides alone, 
 the shadows growing deeper over his anxious face. 
 
 Hark ! A murmur quivers like an electric shock along the line, as a 
 solitary horseman, separating from the advance guard, thunders along, to 
 the side of Taylor, 
 
 " General, the Mexicans await us, in order of battle, on the prairie of 
 Palo Alto !" 
 
 You should have seen the old man's eye flash ! 
 
 " We must reach Fort Brown !" he said, in a composed tone, as the 
 rumor of battle quivered along the line. 
 
 Then came the moment of feverish interest. 
 
 Emerging in two narrow columns from the chaparral, our brave army 
 beheld, extending before them, the level prairie, three miles in extent, 
 bounded on all sides by the prickly pear of the desert, over whose im 
 penetrable wall rose the wiry timber, which gave its name to the immor 
 tal field, PALO ALTO. 
 
 It was a glorious place for a battle field. No hillocks to obstruct the 
 view, no ravines for ambuscade, no massive trees, to conceal the tube of 
 the deadly rifles, smooth as a floor, green with the rank prairie grass, in 
 some places, blooming in others with flowers of delicately contrasted 
 beauty, it seemed the very place for a battle, the convenient and appro 
 priate theatre fo^ a scene of wholesale murder. 
 
 Indeed, the bronzed warrior, Zachary, in pursuing along the road some 
 days ago, pointed with his sheathed sword, to the prairie and exclaimed 
 quietly " Not a finer place in the world for a good fight !" 
 
 Behold the battle field at the moment, when the Americans emerge 
 upon its level plain. Stand here, in the chaparral, our faces to the east 
 and gaze with hushed breath upon the scene. 
 
 A wide plain, here rank with grass, there perfumed with flowers, the 
 
50 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 road winding through its centre, and gleaming with small lakes of cool, 
 fresh water, that break upon your eye, like mirrors of silver framed in 
 emerald. 
 
 How beautifully the lakelets flings back the smile of the cloudless sky ! 
 In ten minutes they will throw back sullenly, the reflection of a bloody 
 and darkening heaven. 
 
 Yonder, in the centre of the prairie, from the tall rank grass, gleams a 
 dazzling line, a mile and a half in length, a line composed of swords, 
 lances, bayonets, and marking by its extent, the firm position and battle 
 resolve of six thousand Mexicans. 
 
 They stand there in imposing array, the sunlight quivering tremblingly 
 on the points of lance and bayonet, the cannon glooming death from every 
 dark muzzle. Behind their ranks the prairie extends, then the chaparral 
 and the wiry timber of Palo Alto. 
 
 In 'this moment of breathless silence, do you hear distinctly the low 
 murmur of the half-dried rivulet ? 
 
 It is upon this array of six thousand veteran troops, that the two thou 
 sand Americans gaze, as they emerge into the plain. Zachary Taylor 
 you see him yonder, the bronzed-faced warrior in the brown coat, mounted 
 on the old gray horse gazes with a brightening eye on the array. It 
 must be confessed that the details are very beautiful. 
 
 Far on the right, advanced some distance in front of the Mexican line, 
 a regiment of lancers, in brilliant uniforms, mounted on strong-limbed 
 battle steeds, awaited in gorgeous array, the signal word of fight. Above 
 their heads, glittering against the sky, a forest of lancers, with a red flag, 
 waving from each deadly point of steel. 
 
 The artillery next enchains your eye ; then the infantry, an iron mass, 
 composed of muscular forms, musquets and bayonets, all linked in one ; 
 then the cavalry again, and so on, through the whole extent of that brave 
 army, alternate bodies of cavalry, infantry, artillery, or in other words, 
 first, men, horses, lances and swords ; then men and cannon, then men 
 with fire and steel, girded to their hearts. 
 
 Yonder in the rear of the centre of the line, with his uniform burdened 
 with ornaments, you see Arista, his white teeth, gleaming below his mus 
 tache, as with a smile, he sees rough Taylor come. Around him, glitters 
 a brilliant staff, and in front, the tri-color of Mexico rushes into the sky. 
 
 Taylor beholds it all. "It is certainly, my object to reaah Fort Brown," 
 he says in his quiet way, And therefore, the sooner w^ct about it, the 
 better." 
 
 The word of command passes his lips. Look ! The army break into 
 companies, they stack their arms, and calmly marching to the brink of 
 those small lakes, assuage their burning thirst, with copious draughts of 
 fresh water. Drink brave men, and fill your canteens with the clear 
 liquid, for ere ten minutes are gone, that water, will be red with blood ! 
 
PALO ALTO. 51 
 
 As we gaze, they march from the lakes into the prairie once more ; 
 refreshed by hearty draughts, they spring to their arms, with elastic steps 
 and blazing eyes, while one thunder shout, swells into the sky, as bared 
 to the light, the Banner of the Stars, streams over the field of Palo Alto. 
 
 That Banner speaks to two thousand hearts, and speaks of far-off 
 friends of Home of Glory of WASHINGTON. Again that deafening 
 cheer, and more rapidly goes on, the determined preparation for battle. 
 
 *At last the battle is formed : history never recorded a more beautiful 
 array. 
 
 The American line, presents three striking points ; RINGGOLD'S artil 
 lery on the right ; CHURCHILL'S two eighteen pounders in the centre ; 
 DUNCAN'S artillery on the extreme left Three silent volcanoes with the 
 lava of death, boiling in their breasts ! 
 
 Around these three points, shone the glittering array of bayonets. Each 
 cannon was relieved by the steady mass of infantry. It was to be, so 
 old Taylor said, a fight with cannon, a deadly combat of whirling horses, 
 brass and iron, of blazing muzzles and hissing balls ; the infantry and 
 cavalry, had scarce a duty to perform, save to stand still, defend the can 
 non, see the battle, and feel the madness of the fight blazing in their 
 veins. 
 
 At last the word was given to advance ! 
 
 At Two O'clock, the very hour, when Washington, under as clear a 
 sky, came to do battle at BRANDYWINE, did Zachary Taylor, give the word 
 and see his army slowly, steadily advance, over the prairie of PALO ALTO. 
 
 Any man who has seen a battle, knows that the shout of carnage, is 
 not half so terrible, as the awful silence before the first fire. Then, as a 
 man hears the beating of his heart, and when the crushed grass, beneath 
 his feet, seems to echo his tread with a sound like thunder so brooding, 
 so intense is the calm before the storm the Soldier sees Eternity yawn 
 ing beneath him, over which he hangs suspended by a single hair. 
 
 Slowly, steadily over the prairie, men and horses and steel and ban 
 ners moved on. More clearly they began to distinguish the Mexican 
 banner, to see the hues of their uniforms, to note their cannon-muzzles 
 yawning Death into their faces. The suspense was horrible many a 
 
 * Viewed merely with the eyes of military men, it was a splendid plan of battle. 
 The RIGHT, was formed in this manner : The Fifth infantry with Lieut. Col. Me. 
 Intosh ; Ringgold with his artillery ; the Third iniantry under command of Capt. L. 
 N. Morris ; Lieut. Churchhill, with two eighteen pounders, of the Third artillery ; 
 Fourth infantry, commanded by Major G. W. Allen ; The THIRD BRIGADE, composed 
 of the Third and Fourth Regiments, commanded by Lieut. Col. Garland, and two 
 squadrons of dragoons, under command of Captain Ker and May. The entire wing 
 was under the orders of Colonel TWIGGS. 
 
 THE LEFT WING: a battalion of artillery, commanded by Lieut. Col. Childs ; Dun 
 can's light artillery; eighth infantry, Capt. Montgomery ; the whole forming the 
 First Brigade, under Lieut. Col. Belknap. Captain Cressman and Myers, were 
 entrusted with the train, which was packed near the water. 
 
52 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 brave veteran felt his heart in his throat, and grasped his musquet, with a 
 hand clammy with cold dews. 
 
 At this moment, behold a deep worthy of the age of chivalry ! 
 
 A single horseman, separates from the American army, and like a 
 thunderbolt from a cloud, whirls away, over the plain. Both armies mark 
 the athletic beauty of his form, his horse with arching neck and distended 
 nostrils, his white plume, waving over a young face, remarkable for its 
 expression of cool courage. He dashes over the plain the Americans 
 hold their breath, in suspense, the Mexicans in wonder. 
 
 Is he mad ? Rising in the stirrups, in view of thousands, he ap 
 proaches within one hundred and fifty yards of the Mexicans, calmly 
 dismounts, flings his arm on his horse's neck, and taking from his pocket 
 a spy glass, calmly surveys their terrible array. 
 
 Dotting the sod, between the two armies, that solitary soldier and his 
 horse, form an object of interest for eight thousand men. 
 
 He can count their lances, their swords tell the number of cannon 
 which they display and as if astonished by the calm composure of the 
 audacious soldier, the Mexicans do not fire. One levelled musquet, and 
 he is dead ! Presently you see, two Mexicans in their gaudy costume, 
 dash from the army and approach him. 
 
 The young soldier sees them come, waits until he has completed his 
 ' reconnoisance', mounts his steed and rides not directly back to his 
 army again but down in front of their line, with cannon glooming and 
 bayonets glittering, a wall of death before him, rides with his plume 
 waving and the shout of his comrades, breaking in his ears ! 
 
 Then, dashing like an arrow, across the plain, he approaches the Gen 
 eral, and calmly tells him the numbers and exact condition of the foe. 
 The old warrior smiles, and the army move silently on. 
 
 Little did the gallant soldier BLAKE, in that moment of excitement, 
 dream of the sad and singular fate which awaited him. 
 
 Seven hundred yards now intervene between the armies. Take care ! 
 Do not breathe a word ! A single whisper may scare the slumbering 
 Death into action, and send him rioting over the field. 
 
 At this moment, when the Armies glare in each other's faces, when 
 Arista, with a smile surveys plain Zachary's rough costume, when the 
 umbering wheels and monotonous hoofs alone are heard, tell me, what 
 means this meet of opposing hosts on the plain of Palo Alto ? 
 
 Here the Americans in blue there the Mexicans in green here, the 
 tri-color of Anahuac, there the Banner of the Stars ! Here, the veterans 
 of Mexican battles, tawny heroes from the terra caliente, of Vera Cruz, 
 and robust mountaineers, from the shadows of Orizaba, the men, who 
 butchered the Texans at Alamo, and the Rancheroes, who will butcher 
 the wounded and strip the dead ere an hour is gone ! There, an untried 
 army of two thousand men, gathered from the hills and vallies of Amer- 
 
PALO ALTO. 53 
 
 ica, with here and there, a veteran from the fields of Poland, or a grey 
 mustache' from the ranks of Napoleon ! 
 
 What does it mean ? 
 
 It means that the Sword of Washington, is about to blaze, in conquest 
 and civilization over the land of Mexico. It means that one bloody battle 
 field will soon call to another, until a chorus of victories, join their cries 
 and shout to the world, that the American People, are in arms for the 
 freedom of a Continent. It means, that to-day, a Beginning to be made, 
 to prepare the way for a glorious End. It means that Kings and Tyrants, 
 their panders and satelites have no business on this Continent, It means, 
 that the British had better look to Montreal, for the day comes when the 
 Banner of the Stars will crown its towers, that they had better look to 
 Quebec, for the hour is not far off, when the tramp of American legions 
 will be heard upon its rock. 
 
 It means that a great Reform, is about to commence, a Reform, that 
 will blaze for awhile in the distance, then envelope the borders of our 
 Union, and last of all, burn up the evils which threaten our peace at 
 home ! So, whenever the sword of Washington waves in the air, let us 
 follow its flashing with prayer, and shout Amen ! as it strikes home. 
 
 For a brief moment, in that awful suspense, the opposing enemies re 
 garded each other, and then but hold ! Did you ever see a summer 
 storm girdle the horizon, with its fantastic clouds, and while you watched 
 its sullen march up the sky, a flash of lightning shone, in the far north, 
 and shot from peak to peak, dazzling away, until the heavens were wrapt 
 in a belt of flame ? 
 
 So on the Right of the Mexican army the contest began ; the cannon 
 flamed out, volumes of smoke, rushed into the sky, and a storm of ball 
 and grape, whirled over the American army, singing their battle-song! 
 In an instant, that flame, that smoke, that crash, leapt along the whole 
 Mexican line, and the thunder and lightning of the battle-field were born. 
 
 Those columns of white smoke, mingled with belts of black rolled 
 slowly upward, into the serene sky. 
 
 At the same moment from the centre of the American line, two separate 
 volumes of fire, blazed from the eighteen pounders, there was a cloud 
 in the air and two bloody lanes were hewn, by the hurricane of iron, 
 right in the centre of the Mexican line ; two lanes of mangled and dead. 
 
 The battle had indeed begun the smoke of the Mexican cannon, and 
 the smoke of the American battery, floated slowly into the sky, met in 
 the serene air, and formed a bridge of cloud, above the heads of the con 
 tending armies. 
 
 Hark ! The rumbling of wheels, the heavy sound of horses hoofs beat 
 ing against the sod ! 
 
 From the right of the line, Ringgold sweeps into the prairie, at the 
 sam moment, that Duncan crushes its tall grass to the left, and from 
 
.- 1 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 either extremity of the army, blaze answers blaze, and cannon shouts to 
 cannon. Every shot makes a lane of dead, every ball bears a head, or 
 an arm away ! 
 
 It is now that Ringgold is terrible. It is now that the fruits of long 
 years of training are seen. It is now, that these men of his band, disci 
 plined by him, into separate pieces of iron, forming one great machine 
 of battle, display their firm hearts and steady eyes. Few persons, who 
 beheld the erect soldier, attired in his elegant uniform, pacing along the 
 fashionable street of his native city, can imagine, his appearance and 
 demeanor now. 
 
 Reined beside the blazing battery, his white horse, fixed as a statue, 
 to the sod, still quivers beneath him. Erect in the saddle, his muscular 
 chest and arms, displayed by the close-fitting uniform, whose rich dark 
 blue so well relieves his boldly featured countenance, he gives the word 
 of command to his men, marks the effect of the shot, with his eye, and 
 sees whole platoons of gay uniforms go down, in blood. 
 
 The revolutionary blood of John Cadwallader burns in his veins, and 
 the fire of battle mounts his heart. Over his head whirls the fury of the 
 Mexican hurricane were those guns, aimed with half the precision of 
 his own, his command would be blasted into the dust, ere a moment. But 
 as it is, from the want of deadly skill, on the part of the Mexicans, their 
 terrible missiles only hiss, in upper air. 
 
 As Ringgold, erect on his white horse, rises before us, a strong picture, 
 boldly marked out, by the blaze of battle, you behold a single feature of 
 the infernal revelry of war. The common soldier, by his side, attired in 
 a blue round jacket, his broad chest, laid open to the light ? You behold 
 him, touch his cap, and stand motionless, in the act of listening to the 
 words of Ringgold. His swarthy face is all attention, his honest brow, 
 covered with sweat, assumes an appearance of thought. Look ! Ring- 
 gold in the energy of the moment bends forward extending his hand and 
 at the very instant, the soldier is torn in two, by a combination of horrible 
 missiles, which bear his mangled flesh away, whirling a bloody shower 
 through the air. That thing beneath the horse's feet,iwith the head bent 
 back, until it touches the heels, that mass of bloody flesh, in which face, 
 feet and brains, alone are distinguishable, was only a moment past, a 
 living man. 
 
 And from the space between the cannon wheels, where she had shel 
 tered herself, her babe slumbering in her arms amid the fierce roar of 
 the battle crawls forth the Woman, whom we saw following the army 
 not long ago, was her husband. She placed the gory head upon her lap, 
 and with her face bent down, said not a word, but wept in silence. 
 Ringgold turned his eyes away, and was not ashamed of tears ! A fine, 
 matronly woman, not twenty-six years old, with the hue of vigorous 
 health upon her cheeks, she had followed her husband, from the desolated 
 
PALO ALTO. 55 
 
 fields of Ireland, across the ocean, then into the army and now ! And 
 thus, with the bloody head upon her lap, she sat all day, while the fight 
 whirled round her. At night, when there was nothing but a pale moon, 
 shining over heaps of slaughter, she was still there, upon her knee the 
 gory head, upon her breast the slumbering babe. Day came again, the 
 armies passed away, the battle whirled far to the south the Woman, and 
 the Dead Man and the Child were still together, there, upon the field of 
 Palo Alto. 
 
 Yes, when the jackals prowled around her, when the vulture, attracted 
 by the scent of the festering body, swept the air, not one foot above her 
 head, she still kept the watch, moving her body, slowly to and fro, and 
 singing a wild Irish song. It was until they came with spades to hide the 
 hideous corruption of the field, that she could be torn from her loathsome 
 burden. And as they huddled the miserable thing, into the hurried grave, 
 she was seen, taking her desolate way, across the wilderness, her babe 
 still clinging to her bosom, while that low-toned, monotonous lament broke 
 over the dead silence of the deserted field. 
 
 To the battle once more ! 
 
 While the cannon of RINGGOLD blaze on the right, there is a flash on 
 the far left, and a roar from the centre of the line. Slowly the eighteen 
 pounders, advance from the centre, scattering a terrible mass of balls, into 
 the Mexican array. Steadily on the left, DUNCAN, pours the hurricane of 
 iron, and sees, whole lines of men and horses, crushed into dust, ere the 
 battle flash of the cannon, leaves his face. Sternly on the right, RING- 
 GOLD, on his war-horse, pursues the work, whirling his bolts of flame, 
 upon those gay lancers yonder, whose points of steel fluttering with crimson 
 flags, cannot save them from the death, which rends their arms, crushes 
 their skulls, and piles them up, in bleeding heaps along the sod. 
 
 The Infantry stood in silent masses, the blood boiling in their veins as 
 they gazed upon the clouds of the fight, into whose whirlpool, they were 
 not permitted to precipitate their legions. 
 
 Behold their stern array ! 
 
 Shoulder to shoulder, their voiceless musquets in their grasp, they glare 
 beneath their frontlets upon the battle, they mark the lanes of the Mex 
 ican dead, they force their breath between the clenched teeth, they rend 
 the air, with shouts. 
 
 And every minute, there comes hissing into their ranks a shower of 
 grape, that bears a human head away, over their living heads, and en 
 tangles their immovable ranks, with the howling wounded or glassy-eyed 
 dead. Aye, glassy-eyed ! Of all the horrible things in a battle, the most 
 horrible, is to see the comrade by your side, crushed backward, by a ball, 
 which unroofs his skull only for a single moment he moves and all is 
 stillonly for a single moment, he rolls his glassy eyes upon your face, 
 
56 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 as if calling with that speechless agony for vengeance, and then there is 
 no longer a man by your side, but a corse at your feet. 
 
 The battle now begins to wear its most infernal beauty ! These lines 
 of armed men, arrayed on the prairie, these volumes of flame, blazing 
 from one living wall to another, this flag of three colors, and yonder ban 
 ner of the stars, seen only through the intervals of rolling clouds, these 
 piles of mangled and dead, with the infuriate and frenzied living trampling 
 over their faces, these sturdy cannoniers, stripping their bronzed forms to 
 the waist, and hurling the hurricane into the faces of their foe, without a 
 shout, the sky of God, over all, smiling through the windows of the 
 smoke, upon the scene of Murder ! Ah, there is in every heart, the In 
 stinct of Carnages and a scene like this, would make a Saint throw down 
 his cross, and seize a sword ! 
 
 In the midst of the battle, on a gentle elevation, which commands the 
 prairie, in every foot of its extent, you see Zachary Taylor, in his brown 
 coat, mounted on his grey horse, his large eyes, rolling rapidly over the 
 field. His broad chest swells, as though every impulse of the fight hung 
 on his breath. You will understand that the scene before him is no 
 child's play. Defeated, and what will be the fate of his men ? Look 
 yonder in the thicket, and see the bearded Ranchero, mangling the 
 wounded, whom he has dragged from the field whom he has stabbed, 
 killed, stripped mangling the dead body, and carving its features with 
 this gory knife ! 
 
 Defeated, Zachary Taylor and his men, will be butchered in cold 
 blood, their faces trampled into the sod of the prairie, mingled with gore. 
 
 Therefore, the old man, styled, old, more in reverence to his rough, 
 heroic genius, in veneration of his thirty-eight years of service, than in 
 respect to his years sits on his familiar grey steed, while his aids in 
 their gallant military array, speed to and fro, and the Cannon Battle blazes 
 steadily onward. 
 
 For two hours, from two o'clock until four, that terrible battle of can 
 non thundering against cannon, continued without one moment's interval 
 in the steady work of death. 
 
 At this moment, we will cross the prairie, and hurry towards the cen 
 tre of the Mexican army. 
 
 A magnificent cavalier, mounted on a charger as white as snow, with 
 mane tossing to the battle breeze, is seen, the centre of a brilliant circle 
 of mounted officers. Over his countenance, marked with the traces of 
 courage, bronzed by long exposure to the fierce tropical sun, and distin 
 guished by a bright red mustache, waves a cluster of snow white plumes. 
 His green uniform, faced with buff, is heavy with ornaments of gold. 
 
 As his proud horse, arches his neck, and in fiery eagerness, to join the 
 battle, curvets over the sod, it must be confessed, that the rider presents 
 an appearance at once, impressive and chivalric. 
 
PALO ALTO. 57 
 
 It is General Arista, in the midst of his officers, watching the deadly 
 cannonade. 
 
 Among that crowd, glittering in brilliant uniforms, let me ask you to 
 single out one face, lowering in the brow and unmeaning in the lip ; it is 
 the visage of AMPUDIA, who boasts of having boiled the head of a dead 
 enemy* in a cauldron of oil. He is very gaily attired, and his bay horse 
 is one of the finest in the world, yet it were well for him, to keep out of 
 the range of the Texan rifles, for there is an old account to settle, and a 
 record of blood to be blotted out 
 
 Around Arista, the scene is sad and touching. 
 
 The earth is crowded with mangled bodies. Here a leg, there an arm, 
 yonder a head ; it is horrible but it is true ; the air quivers with death 
 groans, and amid the deep boom of the cannonade, you hear the mangled 
 Mexican howl to Jesus, to God, to the tVirgin of Gaudalupe for pity ! 
 
 ' We can never stand this," exclaims Arista, as a cannon ball, passes 
 beneath his horse's hoofs " We must charge ! away" he shouts to an 
 aid-de-camp " And tell General Torrejon, to lead his regiment of lancers 
 against the Right of the enemy we must take their artillery or be driven 
 from the field." 
 
 The officer sped away, through the battle clouds, and presently the re 
 giment of lancers, fifteen hundred strong, were seen moving forward, in 
 compact order, their array looking very beautiful, very terrible, by the 
 glare of the cannon light, as with red pennons waving from their fifteen 
 hundred points of steel, they began to gloom upon the band of Ringgold. 
 
 At their head his helmet glittering in a single ray of sunlight Torre 
 jon waved his sword, and pointed toward the conspicuous form of the 
 Cannon Hero. 
 
 Taylor saw their beautiful array and could not help admiring the im 
 posing march, with which they rehearsed their funeral. A word passed 
 from the old man's lips, an aid de camp whirled over the field. 
 
 In a moment, the Fifth infantry, formed in square, with their bayonets 
 flashing back the light of fifteen hundred lances, silently awaited the ap 
 proach of the formidable lancers. On their right, behold twenty mounted 
 men, dressed in dark green frocks, with a young man, remarkable for his 
 determined visage at their head. CAPTAIN WALKER, and a few of his 
 iron-chested, death-eyed Texan rifles. 
 
 The Lancers come on ! The brave RIDGELY, with a portion of RING- 
 GOLD'S battery, prepares to give them a hospitable welcome, He unlim- 
 bers his pieces ; in a moment, a hot feast of grape and canister, will 
 smoke before their nostrils. 
 
 * General Sentmanat at Tobasco in 1844. 
 
 t The Patron Saint of Mexico. 
 7 
 
58 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 And in the midst of the Right Wing, erect on his white steed, his glow 
 ing cheek marking his intense interest, in the course of those lancers, you 
 behold MAJOR RINGGOLD. 
 
 And all is silent as the Lancers come on. Terrible silence ! Look 
 yonder and see Zachary Taylor's grey eye fixed intently upon their ap 
 proach ha ! ha ! A shout, he cannot keep it down echoes from his 
 lip, he raises his clenched hand and shouts again. 
 
 For all at once the infantry, have poured their fire into the lancer's 
 faces ; Ridgely has delivered his message of grape and cannister ; Cap- 
 fain Walker, with those twenty battle devils has poured the blaze of his 
 rifles, into their foremost ranks, and now, with twenty upraised knives, 
 charges them home. 
 
 There is much smoke ; there are horrible groans. The smoke clears 
 away, and you behold the foremost lancers, mown down, horses and men 
 together, into one bloody mass. Again they form, again the Americans 
 wait until they can count the buttons on their coats, and the iron shower, 
 rained hissing from cannon and rifle and musquet, beats a hundred faces 
 into dust. 
 
 Hark ? that hurrah ! You see Walker alone, with his brave twenty 
 charging a detachment of the lancers, at least one hundred strong. At 
 first it looks like a cloud of men, horses and steel, but presently you see 
 the rifleman's plain uniform, come out, in strong contrast, with the gaudy 
 lancer's trappings you mark the flash of the bowie knife and see the 
 answering stream of blood. 
 
 It would have done old Daniel Morgan good, to see this young Walker. 
 A very unpretending man in appearance, with a sun-burnt face, a form 
 altogether full of iron sinews, and yet not remarkable for gigantic height ; 
 an arm that strikes suddenly and strikes home. In fact the modern Lee 
 of the American army, fighting always, on his own account, and flashing 
 out, in individual deeds of glory. 
 
 "Again, my brave comrades" shouted Torrejon, as his horse reared 
 among heaps of dead "Charge ! Turn their flanks and the train is ours !" 
 
 Advancing over the bodies of their own dead, the Lancers raised once 
 more their glittering front into light, but the FIFTH infantry, a solid wall 
 of bayonets received them. But on they pressed, the contest deepened, 
 lances and bayonets were locked together, when the veteran Colonel 
 TWIGGS, his stern visage, manifesting in each lineament, the fever of the 
 hour, uttered the word of command, and in a moment, another band* 
 inarched to the extreme right, their arms glittering in the battle light. 
 
 It was too much for the Lancers. 
 
 It is true, they thrice outnumbered the American troops, it is true, they 
 were the flower of Mexican chivalry, but when they saw that wall of 
 
 * The THIRD infantry. 
 
PALO ALTO. 59 
 
 bayonets joined to another glittering line, they fell back over the faces of 
 their dead. 
 
 At first in good order, squadron by squadron, but this gallant Ridgely 
 cannot see them depart without a warm farewell ; again his batteries 
 blaze, and yonder in the Mexican ranks horse and man, go thundering 
 to the sod together. Even as he directs the fire, the flanks of his horse 
 are torn in bloody fragments by a cannon ball they fall to the earth, the 
 horse, writhing over his prostrate master. It is a fearful moment: Ridgely 
 is lost ! But no ! He rises, wipes the blood from his face, and beholds 
 a frightened horse, plunging before the muzzle of a cannon. 
 
 He darts forward, seizes the bridle rein, and in the full blaze of con 
 tending fires, he wheels the maddened horse aside. 
 
 Look yonder a glorious sight ! The brilliant uniforms of the lancers 
 seen through the aperture of that colossal cloud, their steel points, and 
 red pennons, breaking together, like waves upon a rocky coast. 
 And Ringgold where is he ? 
 
 Unconscious of the fearful destiny, that awaits him, he pours his fire 
 once more, and by its light, sees whole companies splintered into frag 
 ments. Still, with that sternly compressed lip and eagle eye, he watched 
 the effect of each discharge, nor hesitated, when he saw glimpses of the 
 clear sky, through the lanes which he made in the Mexican ranks. 
 
 At this moment, the eye of old Zachary, beheld a glorious sight to the 
 far left. 
 
 It was the battery of Duncan, blazing amid the bayonets of the eighth 
 regiment, and the horses of Captain Ker's dragoons. These horses and 
 bayonets encircle the battery ; you see its steady hurricane, pour in un 
 remitting fury upon the Mexican ranks. 
 
 Note the effect of a single discharge : a band of men, arrayed yonder, 
 present their beautiful horses, their splendid costume, to the aim of Dun 
 can's. There is a blaze a report a mass of white smoke ! Now look 
 for your chivalric Mexicans, and look until your tired eye sickens with 
 the sight of blood. By the light of the sun streaming through the battle 
 blaze, and looking like the eye of a mad debauchee, behold the earth 
 littered with horses and men, woven through each other, in all the horrible 
 shapes of pain. 
 
 But the battery has no heart it only seems to know that the Mexicans 
 are yonder, that they are in the way of old Zachary, and then swearing 
 its awful thunder oath, it cuts them down. 
 
 Yet, do not think that the Mexican cannonade spends all its fury in 
 air ! No ! Could the mothers, the sailors, the wives, scattered through the 
 American Union, at this hour, thinking fondly of their beloved ones, at 
 this moment, behold them, they would see the tall rank grass, waving 
 over their mangled forms, undulating to each pulse of pain, while the 
 cannon shot, cannot altogether drown the cry of agony. 
 
60 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Even as our hearts writhe within us. at the horrible chorus of groans, 
 which fills the air, the cannon of Duncan communicates its blaze, to the tall 
 prairie grass, which dried and blasted, waves before their muzzles, and 
 withers into flame. Such a glorious flame ! Over the plain, across the 
 space between the armies, like a flash of lightening it hisses along, burn 
 ing the cold faces of the dead to cinder, and crowding the prairie with a 
 mass of fire, that blazes far overhead, in a thousand points of light. 
 
 Then a dense smoke rolls up between the armies, shutting them from 
 each others view, and like the curtain of the theatre, closing the first act 
 of the glorious drama of PALO ALTO. 
 
 And amid those clouds of smoke, which hide the foemen from each 
 other's sight, and all at once, silence the voices of battle all but the 
 groans you may see the bronzed visage of Zachary, lightened by a 
 smile, and gleaming gladly from the large grey eyes. 
 
 Far to the south, aye, through the dense folds of smoke you hear it 
 comes a murmuring yet welcome sound. The Mexicans are retreating 
 from thejield, to form a new line of battle under the cover of the smoky 
 pall! With two thousand untried men, Taylor has beaten back six 
 thousand of the bravest veterans of Mexico. Taylor and his heroes 
 have done it : Taylor and Duncan, and Twiggs, and Ridgely and Church 
 ill and Ringgold, have forced the tri-color to give way before the Banner 
 of the Stars. 
 
 There is a pause in the dim of battle, a mighty breathing time in the 
 work of blood. While the Mexicans form their new line, beyond this 
 gloomy pall, let us take the ground which they occupied, not ten minutes 
 since. 
 
 Let the Banners of the regiments advance ! Then Churchill's two 
 eighteen pounders move forward drawn by twenty yoke of oxen, complacent 
 beasts, who put their hoofs on dead men's faces, and crop the tall rank 
 grass, as they walk peacefully along. 
 
 But the wounded yes ! God pity them, we must bear them gently to 
 the rear, and keep stout hearts within us, for here are sights to wring the 
 soul of the strong man, and shame his scarred cheek with womanish 
 tears ! 
 
 To the rear with the wounded yes, American and Mexican, with 
 brows bleeding and limbs crushed, with the breath rattling through the 
 pierced lungs, and the mouth choked with blood bear them to the rear ? 
 Rather face the burst of Ringgold's cannon, than witness sights like these, 
 who would not ? For the dead we do not care. 
 
 Care ; no ! They may lie upon their faces, biting mouthfuls of bloody 
 dust, they may rest upon their backs glaring with stony eyes, upon that 
 cloud, which covers them, like a pall, they may be torn in pieces, here a 
 grisly head, and there an arm. They who have wives or mot! ers, or sis- 
 
PALO ALTO. 61 
 
 ters, weeping for them, even now in a far away land but what care we ? 
 Pain, want, the world itself, to them, are now but empty names, for 
 they are dead. 
 
 But the wounded, oh, have you the heart to gaze upon them, as they 
 pass by, in the arms of sturdy living men ? 
 
 A young soldier, with his coat thrown open, and the gash from the 
 throat to the waist laid bare. A very boy, pale and clammy in the deli 
 cate features, his arms and legs dangling over the ground, as they bear 
 him away. He faced the battle, with a quickening pulse and boyish 
 shout, but now, in his delirium, he only mutters certain childish words 
 about his Sister and his Home ! 
 
 Then a strong man is borne along, his skull laid open by a chain-shot. 
 Howling, mad with pain, he blasphemes his God, and reaches forth his 
 arms to choke the wounded Mexican, who, shrieking in ludicrous English 
 for " Water !" is carried by his side. 
 
 But now, the Soldiers to whom this sad duty is entrusted, approach a 
 form, hidden in the tall grass an old man 
 
 Yet, ere we gaze upon him, and hear words which will fill our eyes, 
 and make our hearts beat quicker, let me tell you a Legejnd of two worlds. 
 
 There was a night, when a solitary lamp burned in the Imperial Palace 
 of Fontainebleu^ The gardens around were dark ; the halls within deso 
 late ; the fountains hushed. The Palace wore the aspect of a Tomb. It 
 seemed as though a cloud of mourning hung over its wide roofs and 
 towers : mourning for the crimes and miseries of France. The sceptre 
 was about departing from her hands, the laurel from her brows. 
 
 Along this corridor of the deserted palace, before a narrow doorway, 
 stalks the sentinel, his stealthy tread scarce arousing the ghost of an echo. 
 All is dark around him, yet as he approaches the deep-embayed window, 
 at the end of the corridor, you see the costume of a soldier clothing his 
 broad chest, the musquet of a veteran in his grasp. And as he walks 
 along, looking earnestly toward the narrow door now pausing to listen 
 he utters a subdued groan, and the tears stream down his rugged cheeks. 
 
 Within that door burns the solitary lamp of Fontainebleu. It is a small 
 door, and yet it leads into a spacious chamber, furnished with all the lux 
 ury of Imperial grandeur. The hangings are of rich purple, spotted with 
 golden bees ; the carpet glows with the dyes of oriental art ; the bed is 
 worthy to be pressed by a young and beautiful woman, that woman the 
 Bride of an Emperor. 
 
 Its curtains of deep azure are gathered on the summit, in the beak of a 
 golden eagle the Eagle of France. 
 
 Near the bed stands a small desk, on which the light is placed. Beside 
 the desk, the carpet is littered with maps and charts, and the gleam of a 
 half-sheathed sword arrests your eye. 
 
62 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 As you wander through the room, wondering at this magnificence, which 
 the faint light invests with a graveyard gloom, starting at the echo of yon 
 step, which makes you shudder, you know not why, there is a movement 
 among the curtains of the bed, and from its shadows a half-naked man 
 struggles painfully into the light. 
 
 With the curtains surmounting him like a frame, he sits on the edge of 
 the bed, a loose dressing gown falling about his limbs. One hand dropped 
 by his side, grasps a phial ; the other, in a gesture expressive of physical 
 exhaustion, rests languidly on the desk. 
 
 His head is downcast; the light falls on a forehead remarkable for its 
 massive outline, and reveals his large eyes, with ghastly blue circles un 
 derneath. His cheeks are sallow, his lips white the entire appearance 
 of that face, indicates a great soul sinking in the apathy of despair, a vig 
 orous body withering into hopeless torpor. 
 
 He sits there, on the edge of the imperial couch, grasping* the phial in 
 his right hand, while his head sinks nearer to his breast. Not a word 
 passes his lips a sense of desolation seems to enclose him, and press 
 down upon him, as the coffin lid shuts in the corse. 
 
 That man is called NAPOLEON. 
 
 Do not start and wonder, for only a few days since, a battle was fought 
 called WATERLOO. 
 
 Alone in his deserted palace, alone, while the Idiots of Royalty, the 
 Bourbons, are coming back to Paris and to this Fontainebleu, on barbarian 
 bayonets, alone with the despair of his great heart this Man has taken 
 poison, but he cannot die. 
 
 For, as I said a moment ago, his Name is NAPOLEON. His mighty life 
 demands a sublime death-bed. An Island-Rock in the midst of an Ocean, 
 can alone afford a couch for his dying hour. 
 
 He has taken poison but cannot die, for Destiny does not forget her 
 child. 
 
 A few days ago, he pressed this couch, with a young and beautiful 
 woman by his side, a lovely child smiling upon his face, his own image, 
 hallowed by the outlines of infancy. Only a few days, and he walked 
 these halls an Emperor, with crowds of liveried Lords the parasites 
 whom the justice of the Revolution had spared, the Generals who had 
 won their titles on the battlefield Lords, I say, and Dukes and Princes, 
 doing him the commonest offices of menial service. 
 
 Where is the wife now ? The child ? Where the long lines of liveried 
 Princes, who did honor to the Emperor ? Where the Generals and Mar 
 shals of France, who had flashed into Kings at his word ? 
 
 The wife what better could we expect from royal blood, cankered by 
 the scrofula of a thousand years has fled, taking with her the Child of 
 Napoleon. The Princes in livery, are even now, making their peace with 
 the Russian Barbarian, and doing homage to that immortal British Mis- 
 
PALO ALTO. 03 
 
 take, who did not lose the battle of Waterloo, that immense fog of history, 
 My Lord Wellington. 
 
 And NAPOLEON is left alone, to die, with the poison phial in his hand ! 
 
 As wrapped in the apathy of despair, he crouches on the edge of the 
 imperial bed, he hears the sentinel's footstep, and starts to his feet. That 
 sound is strange to him it speaks of the Camp, which after all, was 
 Napoleon's only Throne. He rises, opens the door, calls. 
 
 The Sentinel enters ; you see him by the dim light, a man of some 
 forty years, with Aboukir, Moscow, Austerlitz, written on his bronzed 
 face. His dark green uniform is miserably worn, and hideously patched 
 with blood. A thick dark moustache covers his upper lip, and hides its 
 tremor. 
 
 You see him, tall and erect, stand before the Fallen Destiny, that man 
 in the dressing gown, with the marks of poison on his god-like face. 
 
 " Who bade you watch here ?" his voice is harsh, abrupt. 
 
 "My heart^ Sire !" says the soldier, whose twenty years of service, 
 have left him where he began in the ranks. 
 
 There was something in the voice of the soldier, that went straight to 
 Napoleon's heart. 
 
 " Your heart ? Nonsense ! All have deserted me why not you ?" 
 
 " It is not true, Sire," and the Soldier rose powerfully erect " All have 
 not deserted you! These lords, these princes, these dukes Sacre .' 
 They could not desert you, for they were never with you. But the 
 People, Sir, the People were with you, always with you they are with 
 you now ! Look you, Sire these tears ! I weep I, who never wept 
 when I saw Moscow's flame upon your face, uor shed one tear when 
 Waterloo flung its clouds upon your brow I weep now ! To see you 
 thus, when at a word from your lips, forty thousand men, who watch 
 around this palace, would tear the hearts from their bodies, to serve you ! 
 Come, Sire, say the word, and we'll raise the Eagle again !" 
 
 The head of Napoleon sunk upon his breast. The broken appeal of 
 that soldier stirred his leaden apathy into tears. 
 
 " Your name ?" 
 
 " I have fought so long in the ranks, by a name which my comrades 
 gave me, that I have almost forgotten the name which my father bore, 
 which I took with me from my native village twenty years ago. Call 
 me Comrade Joseph, Sire !" 
 
 " In the ranks ?" cried Napoleon" With your years of service ! What ! 
 No Cross, no badge of honor ? No token of merit ? No reward ?" 
 
 " Wrong, Sire, again ! After Austerlitz, as I lay mangled near your 
 horse's feet, you pointed to me, and muttered, ' Poor ftllow ! He hcu 
 fought bravely /' I have been rewarded." 
 
 He brought his musquet down upon the rich carpet, with a sound like 
 thunder, by way of adding emphasis to his words. It is not to be con- 
 
64 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 cealed, that this speech affected Napoleon deeply. Turning away, the 
 fallen Emperor opened a secret drawer of his desk. 
 
 " Come hither, Comrade Joseph all whom I ever made rich by princely 
 gifts, have deserted me. You to whom I never gave so much as a sou, 
 you, whose services of twenty years have been passed unrewarded by, 
 you are true, when all the world is false. Joseph, I have no Cross to 
 give _for the Legion of Honor is dead. Joseph, speak ! Will you ac 
 cept a name from me " 
 
 Sire " the Soldier gasped, with choking utterance. 
 
 " Take from the fallen Emperor, the name of JOSEPH AUSTERLITZ ! 
 Here is a picture my picture wear it next your heart, Joseph, and treat 
 it better than its last possessor " he bowed his head and veiled his face 
 from the light "My Empress, Maria Louisa, left it, when she fled 
 from me /" 
 
 And at midnight, in the silent palace of Fontainebleu, did the fallen 
 Man of Destiny hang round the veteran soldier's neck, that golden chain, 
 to which was attached his own picture, with its god-like forehead, and 
 large, eloquent eyes. 
 
 On the field of Palo Alto, amid the tall rank grass, behold an aged man, 
 whose hair and mustache white as the driven snow, contrast strongly with 
 his bronzed and battle-worn face. His blue uniform, thrown open across 
 the breast, reveals the death-wound ; you see his blue eyes roll from side 
 to side, and hear the air rattling in his mangled chest. 
 
 His stiffening fingers grasp his short artillerist sword, as with his face 
 to the sky, or rather toward the cloud of prairie smoke, he bites his lips, 
 and chokes down the involuntary groan of pain. 
 
 " Comrade," exclaim the soldiers, whose place it is to bear the wounded 
 to the rear, " We are sorry to see you in this condition " and the sight 
 of the old man's head, baptized with the snows of seventy years, held 
 them spell-bound to the spot. 
 
 He raised himself on one arm venerable sight ! His broad chest was 
 bared; they could see, written in that scar near the throat, the word 
 Moscow. 
 
 The bronzed face, marked on each cheek, and over the brow, with the 
 traces of long healed wounds, spoke eloquently of Aboukir, Marengo, 
 Austerlitz and Waterloo. 
 
 Perchance some memory of these glorious names, was busy at his 
 heart, perchance the thought of France, came up to him in this moment 
 of agony, but he merely said 
 
 " Go on comrades ! It is but an old man lost !" And fell back dead. 
 
 Near his wound a golden chain sparkled into light, and beneath that 
 wound, rising with the last pulsation of his heart, appeared the portrait of 
 NAPOLEOX. 
 
PALO ALTO. 65 
 
 Thus, on the sod of the battle-field, miry with blood, are drawn many- 
 pictures of wild and contrasted interest. 
 
 Near the corse of the soldier of Napoleon, a child of Poland breathes 
 his last, and yonder, an old man, in plain farmer's costume, sits amid the 
 long grass, holding on his knee, a boy not more than nineteen years old, 
 whose pale cheek, and closed lids, and smiling lips, announce a long and 
 peaceful sleep. 
 
 It needs no words, to indicate the tie which binds these two together. 
 An old farmer of Texas, who left his plough for the rifle, and took with 
 him, to battle, his only son ! 
 
 His only son f The old man wipes his brow with the back of his hand, 
 and looks upon that serene face, smiling upon him, in its calm slumber. 
 His sunburnt face is unruffled by an emotion, still you may distinguish an 
 almost imperceptible twitching of the nether lip, while the veins of his 
 bared throat swell, until they resemble cords of steel. 
 
 His only son. Dying, not with convulsive howls of pain, but calmly 
 as an infant goes to sleep. The agitation of the old man, finds rent at 
 last in these rude words, spoken hurriedly, without a tear, yet with husky 
 utterance : 
 
 " Your Mother, boy, what '11 I say to her, when I go home, and see 
 her standing in the door and askin' for you ? She 'II ask whar you ar', 
 and what can I say ?" 
 
 And unable to hold the agony that was clasping him, the old man 
 wrapped his huge arm about the dead boy and wept terribly ; as only a 
 strong man can weep. 
 
 It was now four o'clock. The sun was sinking in the west : his disc, 
 like an immense globe of fire, glared through the darkening cloud of battle 
 smoke. The Americans have advanced, yes, through the fire and smoke 
 of the burning prairie, you may see on the very spot, when an hour ago, 
 floated the tri-color of Mexico, now waving proudly the Banner of the 
 Stars. 
 
 Calmly reining his old grey horse, in the very centre of the late battle 
 field, stout-hearted Zachary prepares for the second fight of Palo Alto. A 
 sad, a terrible prospect meets his eye beneath his horse's feet the earth 
 harrowed by cannon balls, and miry with blood. But around him ah, 
 that is the sight to stir the old man's heart, even through the gathering 
 shadows, the bayonets gleam like shattered rays of light. 
 
 On his right, he beholds RINGGOLD'S cannon, backed by the hearts and 
 steel of the heroic Fourth. Beyond the cannon you behold the Fifth 
 Regiment, their bayonets glittering on the extreme right of the newly 
 formed line. Far on the left the unwearied DCNCAN repairs the wounds, 
 which his battery has endured, and brings forth fresh stores of powder 
 
 and ball, for the last fight of Palo Alto. 
 
 8 
 
66 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 CHURCHILL is not idle, you may be sure ; he is teaching his terrible 
 eighteen pounders, how to speak in the coming battle. 
 
 To the south, the prospect stirs the General's blood. Through those 
 vast curtains of prairie smoke, now descending upon the fiery sod like a 
 pall, and now undulating like mists about the mountain top, he sees the 
 long line of Mexican arms, glitter far over the plain, into the shadows of 
 the chaparral. 
 
 ' Arista has chosen his last position !" said the General, with one of 
 his quiet smiles. 
 
 Flutter, Banner of the Stare, flutter beautifully, and fling forth your belts 
 of scarlet and snow, for all that is left of the two thousand men, looks up 
 to you with hope, as the trumpet of battle shrieks along the breeze ! 
 
 And from the Mexican line look ! That volume of flame, streaming 
 through the smoke of the burning prairie hark ! That hurricane of 
 iron balls ! 
 
 Around the cannon of Ringgold, the fury of the Mexican battle descends, 
 in a whirlwind of cannister and grape. Arista smiles, as from afar he 
 surveys the effect of his fire : for every discharge flings a shower of blood 
 into the faces of living men, and from the solid ranks, picks out brave 
 forms and crushes them into the grave, dug by the cannon ball at their feet. 
 
 Behold the gallant Fourth ; hear the howl of pain, as bayonet after 
 bayonet sinks to rise in its owner's hands no more. 
 
 It was in the heat of this terrible fire, that a scene took place, which 
 for its strong lights and dark shadows, has no parallel in history. Let us 
 behold the picture, framed as it is, in the smoke of the burning prairie. 
 
 We stand on this space of sward, burnt and blackened by the heat of 
 battle. Before us glooms the terrible eighteen pounders, which all day 
 long, have thundered their message of death into the Mexican ranks. 
 
 Around those cannon extends a circle of manly chests and glittering 
 steel. You see them, there, the heroes of the day, standing amid the dead 
 bodies of their comrades. Three figures in the picture, standing out from 
 all others, rivet our eyes. 
 
 CHURCHILL, standing erect, near his cannon, his face begrimed with 
 powder and stained with blood. By his side PAYNE, the Inspector Gene 
 ral, a man of gallant presence, whose uniform, as yet unstained with blood, 
 glitters gaily in the light, as bending down he ' sights' one of the remorse 
 less eighteen pounders, and prepares to hurl its hurricane of iron into the 
 Mexican army. 
 
 In the open space, near the cannon, behold the prominent figure of the 
 picture a warrior, mounted on a white horse, his head thrown proudly 
 erect on his shoulders, as with a gleaming eye, he gazes upon the battle. 
 It is a beautiful horse, with neck arched, and mane fluttering to the 
 breeze. 
 
PALO ALTO. 67 
 
 That manly form, enveloped in the blue costume, relieved by ornaments 
 of gold, that stern face, surmounted by the helmet, over which descends 
 the shower of waving plumes, that broad chest, heaving with the fever of 
 the fight it is a magnificent picture of manhood in its prime. 
 
 At this moment you behold Churchill standing erect, Payne bending 
 over the cannon, the soldier on the white horse lifts his helmet, and a ray 
 of sunlight warms his pale, high forehead. 
 
 Then the eighteen pounders yell forth their battle cry, and the soldier 
 on the white horse, is enveloped in a cloud of smoke. At the same mo 
 ment, the thunder of the Mexican cannon is heard, you see that cloud of 
 smoke, mingled with a cloud of dust, roused by a shower of iron balls. 
 
 The smoke is there, rolling slowly not toward the sky but down 
 ward, until it shuts the soldiers and the cannon from your view. 
 
 A moment passes, and from the bosom of that smoke, shrieks a yell, 
 which makes your blood run cold. 
 
 And from that cloud, writhes into view, the figure of a mangled horse 
 the beautiful steed which we beheld only a moment ago his limbs 
 quivering, his eye horribly dilating, his flanks gored through and through 
 by a cannon ball. 
 
 The saddle is red with blood, and the pistols splintered from the hols 
 ters, fall in fragments by the side of the dying horse. 
 
 But the rider the man of the noble form, and white forehead, gleam 
 ing in the sun ? 
 
 You hear, from the bosom of that cloud, a low, and almost unutterable 
 groan, and then from its folds, there rushes a rude soldier, his form bared 
 to the waist, darkened by powder, while his rough features are stamped 
 with an expression of horrible agony. 
 
 " Colonel," he shrieks rushing toward the gallant Payne, " Look 
 there !" 
 
 He points to the sod, and every soldier in the group, utters a cry of 
 horror. 
 
 There, beside the writhing horse, you behold the soldier, who but a 
 moment ago, towered in all the pride of manhood. Horribly wounded, 
 with the bones of each leg laid bare, from the knee to the thigh, he rests 
 his head upon his hand, while a serene smile steals over his stern 
 visage. 
 
 " Leave me," he calmly says to Payne, to Churchill, to the soldiers 
 who clustered round him. " There is work for you yonder! You must 
 drive the Mexicans before you, and save our comrades at Fort Brown !" 
 
 He reached forth his arm, and laid it upon the neck of his steed, which 
 quivered in its death agony by his side. Then, with that calm smile 
 stealing over his features, as they glowed in the red light of the cannon 
 flash, he took the chain from his neck, and with it the gold watch 
 
 " Give it," he said and his voice trembled for a moment, as the memo- 
 
68 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 ries of home, came crowding round his warrior heart " Give it to my 
 sister. It will serve to remind her of Palo Alto and 
 
 As if afraid to trust his tongue with further words, he said no more, 
 but laid his head upon the neck of his steed, while his wounds poured 
 their torrents of blood along the sod. 
 
 As for the officers who stood round him, they could not speak. In the 
 description of the varied scenes of a battle, we meet with many that 
 rend the heart, but to hear told, but this, before the eyes of Churchill and 
 Payne, was the most heart-rending, the most touching of all. 
 
 RINGGOLD dying on the neck of his dead steed. 
 
 Payne near his head, clasping his hands, as his full heart gushed to his 
 eyes. Churchill by his side, on his knees, veiling his face in his hands, 
 unable to gaze upon the sight. In the background the line of soldiers, 
 all awed into silence, by the spectacle before them. In front of all, a 
 rugged fellow, his form bared to the waist, stained with powder, as he 
 lifts his brawny arms to his face and shrieks the name of Ringgold, with 
 deep sobs. As long as the name of the hero remains, would live the 
 name of that brave teamster KELLY, who although his time expired the 
 night before the battle, preferred to remain by his commander's side, and 
 die with him, or worse than all the horrors of battle, see him die. 
 
 In the midst of the awe-stricken spectators, curtained by the battle 
 clouds, the dying man was stretched upon the neck of his horse. The 
 cannon balls rent the earth every moment, but the steed lay still, and the 
 dying man did not stir. Ever and anon, as the clouds above rolled away, 
 the full light of the setting sun poured upon his pale forehead, and lighted 
 his face as with a glory. 
 
 And while the revolutionary blood of John Cadwallader, pouring front 
 the veins of Ringgold, crimsons the battle-field, who shall dare pierce the 
 shadows of that far off home, and gaze upon the Sister's face, illumined 
 by the same sunset that glows over the face of the dying man as wrapt 
 in a day-dream, she sees her absent brother, mounted on his own gallant 
 steed sees him, come from the wars, the laurel upon his white forehead, 
 the glow of victory upon his battle worn cheek ! Dream on sister of the 
 hero, dream on, Sister of Ringgold ; not many weeks will pass, before 
 the watch and chain, placed in your hands, and stained with his dying 
 blood, will make your heart swell with agony too deep for tears, as you 
 think of the corse, which sleeps upon the sands near the Ocean Wave ! 
 
 And at the very hour, when the Sister of Ringgold, thinks of the absent 
 brother in another home of our land, a wife sitting in the silence of her 
 chamber, rests her pale, beautiful cheek, upon her white hand, while the 
 dark eyes, fire with tender light as she pictures the form of a brave sol 
 dier, now far away on the field of battle. How he will return, how she 
 
PALO ALTO. 69 
 
 will hear his footstep in the hall, how she will spring forward to the thres 
 hold, and bury her head upon his bosom she thinks of it all ! 
 
 At this hour, amid the mist of Palo Alto, not one hundred yards from 
 the spot where Ringgold fell, that husband writhes upon the dust, his 
 limbs quivering in the blood, which pours from his wound, and swells in 
 little pools, where the horse's hoofs have broken the sod. A horrible, a 
 ghastly wound ! The whole lower jaw torn oft' by a cannon ball, that 
 manly face, in a single moment, wrecked into deformity ! 
 
 Days pass ; the wife hears that her husband has been wounded in the 
 fight of Palo Alto. 
 
 At once she leaves her home, and hurries, like a dove through the cloud, 
 to the distant battle field. Over the mountains, and across the rivers, n 
 ship-board, she hastens to his side, hungering to behold him, to pillow his 
 head upon her breast once more. But a strange chance separates them, 
 or can we doubt it ? Providence wished to spare her yet awhile, the 
 full cup of agony. 
 
 While the mangled husband is borne to New Orleans, the wife is on 
 the gulf, hurrying toward the field of Palo Alto. She retraces her way, 
 arid pinioned by her love, resumes her Pilgrimage, a holier pilgrimage 
 than was ever made by the devotee to the gilded shrine, for it was the pil 
 grimage of a faithful wife to the couch of a wounded husband. 
 
 At last, she beholds him. Well may the heart of the Painter grow 
 sick, as his pencil delineates that scene of all the scenes the most heart 
 rending. A door was opened ; the wife stood quivering on the threshold. 
 "Enter" they said " Your husband is here !" 
 
 She entered, trembling all the while. Through the closed curtains, a 
 soft light stole round the place. It was very quiet, very dim, aye, filled 
 with shadows, broken by threads of sunshine and breathlessly still. 
 
 " My husband here ?" And with that volume of her woman's faith, 
 glowing over her cheek and gleaming through her tears, she advanced, 
 gathering her hands to her breast, for the swelling heart, seemed choking 
 the life within her. 
 
 " Where is he ?" she said, standing on tip-toe, in the centre of that 
 darkened room, and look ! as with her arms outspread, her pale face 
 turned from yonder sofa, and turned toward the light she listens. 
 
 Where is he ? Ah, that groan, scarcely audible, sounding like a sigh 
 from the dying, as their lips are muffled by the cold hand of death. 
 
 She turns and gazes into the shadows of the chamber. The sofa 
 stands in that recess, and by degrees, the form of a man clad in undress 
 military costfcme, breaks on her eye. 
 
 But that cloth upon the face, that thing white as snow, falling over the 
 brow, and covering the features, as the shroud covers the heart of the 
 dead ? What does it mean ? A white hand is extended " My Wife !" 
 
70 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 exclaims a choking voice from beneath the folds of the cloth, and two 
 arms are stretched forth, to clasp her home to the husband's heart. 
 
 Then looking tremblingly up, she beholds the white cloth hanging about 
 the face of her husband, and with her heart bursting in a flood of tears, 
 learns at a glance the fearful truth. She may not look upon the hus 
 band's face. Those features which once won her love, with their chival- 
 ric manhood, are now a mass of ruins. The husband seems to feel that 
 her eyes are upmi his veiled face, and utters one long and prolonged groan 
 of anguish, as he clutches her to his heart. 
 
 The last scene of this sad history ! Beneath the smile of the morning 
 sky, on the deck of a steamboat, which dashes the waters of the Missouri 
 from its prow, two figures, rivet the eyes of a weeping crowd : a dying 
 husband resting on the breast of a faithful wife, who even in this dread 
 hour, may not see those features which she loved so well, for upon the 
 brow and the shattered face still rests the white cloth, fluttering to the 
 last impulse of the warrior's breath.* 
 
 Gazing from the centre of his new line of battle, Arista marked with 
 undisguised complacency, the fire of his artillery, poured in all its concen 
 trated fury upon the Right Wing of the American army. As the battle- 
 light lit up his swarthy face, he turned his eyes to the sun shinirtg like a 
 thing of evil omen, through the dark clouds and exclaimed, " It shall not 
 set before I have crushed these Americans on the field, and made them 
 feel the Invaders fate in the chaparral !" 
 
 His fire had wreaked all its fury upon the right wing. He now re 
 solved to carry the field by one brilliant effort. Yonder on the left of the 
 American line, beyond the smoke of the burning prairie, you behold the 
 train of the little army, a prize which Arista swears shall be his own, 
 before the setting of the sun. 
 
 At once, the glittering officers of his staff were seen hurrying over the 
 field. The point of attack had been the right, it was now to be suddenly 
 changed, and the left of the American line was to feel the last desperate 
 blow, stricken by the Mexican host. 
 
 The orders of Arista produced an effect like magic. His right wing, 
 infantry and cavalry, in magnificent array, advanced with one impulse, 
 toward the unprotected left of the American army. It was a sight that 
 would have stirred your blood, to see them come on. Men, horses, lances 
 and bayonets, locked together, like an immense engine of battle murder, 
 moved suddenly to the attack. You see their horses moving proudly on, 
 you hear the dead, sullen tramp of the infantry, you see the tri-color wave, 
 
 * The brave Captain PAGE, wounded at Palo Alto, died on the 13th of July, 1846, 
 onboard the steamer Missouri, while on his way to Jefferson barracks. 
 
PALO ALTO. 71 
 
 and far along the field the points of their lances gleam like torches, and 
 their red flags flutter against the southern sky. 
 
 Arista's white horse is seen rearing proudly, as his rider, already feels 
 the throb of victory pulsate in his veins. He has caught that rough old 
 Zachary at last. He knows not that Ringgold has fallen, nor that Page 
 lies a mangled wreck upon the ground, but he has seen the effect of his 
 deadly fire upon the right wing.* He knows, that with all his dead and 
 dying, counted twice over, he still twice outnumbers Zachary Taylor and 
 his Men. To add to his joy, but a moment ago he saw that terrible DUN 
 CAN, who, all day long had poured his hurricane of iron from the left, 
 suddenly whirl along the American line, and with his horses, his men, his 
 cannon, disappear in the clouds toward the right. He has gone to supply 
 the place of Ringgold it is evident that the train is the prize of Arista, 
 that the left wing will be turned and hurled back upon the right, that 
 Zachary Taylor and his men, will soon aye, ere fifteen minutes have 
 passed be prisoners of war. 
 
 And in the Mexican dialect, a Prisoner of War, means a Man who is 
 to be hurled into a dungeon, or shot like a dog, or cut to pieces with as 
 sassins' knives. " 
 
 In this proud moment, as men and horses and steel that solid mass of 
 battle moved toward the left wing, their joy broke forth, in the music of 
 a full band. You see that immense column of advancing cavalry, under 
 the command of Don Cayetano Montero, one of those brave gentleman, 
 splendid in his dress and musical in his name. In front of this column, 
 attired in burning scarlet, the band of the army advance, their instruments 
 stirring the blood of at least three thousand men, into madness, as they 
 blaze in the light like pieces of burnished gold. O, sweetly, O, sadly, O, 
 terribly that music rose into heaven, with every varied note of joy and 
 woe, as though it spoke of blood and tears, of Mexican mothers robbed of 
 their sons, and of American soldiers, who soon would bite the sod, with 
 their clenched teeth, and feel the hoofs of the horses trampling over their 
 breasts. 
 
 That man is to be pitied, who has not felt his blood dance, at the music 
 of a battle band. Even in the streets of the every-day city, it makes your 
 veins swell with frenzy. But when it comes from a band, who walk 
 calmly on, in front of an advancing army, Death before and Death behind 
 them when in the intervals of the drum's thunder and the trumpet's peal, 
 you hear the moan of pain, the short, quick cry of the dying, then this 
 music of a battle band, makes the blood run riot. You hunger for the 
 battle, and grow thirsty for human blood. 
 
 They advance in their beautiful order, secure in the confidence of vic- 
 
 * The gallant Lieut. Luther of Pennsylvania, was wounded in this fire. 
 
73 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 tory, and seem to have forgotten one essential fact. There is a brave old 
 warrior in yonder ranks, whose name is Zachary Taylor. 
 
 As they come on, a dark mass is seen moving through the clouds of 
 prairie smoke. Like a dark shadow within the cloud, it moves from the 
 right to the left of the American line, it grows larger and wider, spreading 
 forth through the smoke, like the pinions of an immense bird. 
 
 As one man, the Mexicans halt, falling back, rank on rank with a sud 
 den recoil, and a crash like the smothered thunder of a volcano. For that 
 Cloud, moving rapidly through the prairie smoke, begins to resolve itself 
 into shape. It begins to grow into form. From its bosom, uprearing 
 into the battle light, the heads of horses start into view. A rumbling 
 sound from that cloud, a murmur as of wheels passing over a burnt and 
 cindered sod, and then the brazen cannon flash into light. Then, amid 
 the flashing of dragoon scimiters and the circling light of bayonets, appears 
 the face of DUNCAN, black with powder, stained with blood, and terrible to 
 behold, for it says to the whole line of Mexico, We are here here to 
 receive you ! We have seen Ringgold in his blood, and Taylor on his 
 grey steed ! Ringgold tells us, with his dying voice, that there is work 
 for us ahead Taylor bids us to end this battle, and we have come to 
 do it! 
 
 Arista saw them come and ground his teeth. But they did not give 
 him breathing time, those men of iron. Dashing from the cloud, they 
 arrayed their cannon in battle order, and fired. At the moment, when the 
 sturdy cannoniers lifted the match, you might hear the full chorus of the 
 Mexican band, and admire their beautiful array their uniform blushing 
 scarlet, their burnished instruments flashing in the lurid light. 
 
 That cannon shout drowned their music forever. They were arrayed 
 in the very front, and received the battle blast in all its fury. Crushed to 
 the earth not in mere poetical phrase literally hewn away by the hail 
 of cannister and shell, they strewed the ground, shattered trumpets and 
 mangled heads, broken drums and torn bodies, mingled in one bloody pool. 
 It was the most horrible scene of the whole battle. 
 
 For a moment, the Mexican array quivered in every platoon, as with 
 one electric horror of that sight. Then with their shouts of revenge, with 
 their banners waving and their lances poised and bayonets fixed, they 
 moved forward no music sounded this time gradually accelerating their 
 pace, until an irresistible impulse seem to hurl them in one mass upon 
 the foe. 
 
 But DUNCAN was there to receive them. As they came on, he showered 
 once more his iron hail. Here a shell, hurled blazing from his cannon's 
 throat, alighted amid a circle of brave lancers, and scattered man and 
 horse into fragments of flesh and pools of blood. Yonder, the infantry 
 come charging with fixed bayonets ; their green uniform and swarthy 
 faces tinted with red battle light. They near the guns, with a shout they 
 
PALO ALTO. 73 
 
 pour to the last charge, when a cloud of smoke rushes into their faces ; 
 and when it clears away, you see them no more. 
 
 It was a fearful sight to see the wreck accomplished by Duncan's cannon. 
 Back, over the mangled forms and shattered instruments of their own 
 musicians, he hurled the formidable lancers, back, over the faces of their 
 slaughtered infantry, back, with that iron shower tearing their pennons, 
 splintering their spears, cutting lanes into their woven ranks, he hurled 
 the chivalry of Mexico, until the shadows of the chaparral alone, saved 
 the wreck of their glittering array. 
 
 Taylor, viewing the scene from the saddle of his steed, turned to an 
 officer and coolly said, " the day is won." 
 
 Arista beheld it with an expression of overwhelming chagrin, and 
 looked for Ampudia to head another charge, but that brave man, who had 
 boiled a human head from mere vivacity, was gone. Perchance, the 
 visage of Captain Walker, that unassuming young man, who always re 
 ceived the Mexicans with Kentuckian warmth, scared the hero of the boil 
 ing cauldron from the field ? 
 
 Again, mustering his forces for a last, a forlorn charge, Don Cayetano 
 De Montero came from the chaparral, with his lancers formed once more 
 in battle order. They moved to the attack with admirable regularity. The 
 battery of Duncan had, in the meantime, advanced one hundred yards, the 
 cannon wheels forcing a path through Mexican dead. De Montero came 
 on, but in the same moment, the setting sun shone over his spears, the 
 prairie cloud buried them in smoke, and then the hurricane of shell and 
 canister crushed through their ranks again. 
 
 By that mingled light, the setting sun shining its level rays through the 
 intervals of the clouds, and the cannon blaze, casting its red glare toward 
 the sky, until the smoke rolled to and fro in wreaths of crimson, you 
 might see the last picture of this battle day. 
 
 The wreck of six thousand brave men in full retreat, over a space of 
 prairie three miles in extent, their scattered legions seen through the folds 
 of the curtaining clouds. 
 
 Squadron crowding back on squadron, one column communicating its 
 panic to another in the rear, until the battle became a rout, the cannonade 
 a chase. In one place, a battalion of retreating horse crushes down a mass 
 of foot-soldiers, and over their mangled bodies, scours away from that ter 
 rible blaze of Duncan's cannon. In another, two bands of horse and foot, 
 stricken with the panic, and flying in an opposite direction from the field, 
 became entangled and rocked to and fro like an immense wave, their arms 
 glittering like spray. Not a moment passed before their contest was over. 
 A wide lane splintered through their ranks by the cannon balls, and paved 
 with the faces of the dead, divided them into two bodies again, who fled 
 from each other's sight, as though a Plague stalked between them; 
 
 It was at this moment, when for the space of two miles, the prairie was 
 
 9 
 
74 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 littered with Mexican corses, with fallen banners and broken arms, that a 
 scene took place, in every way worthy of this day of chivalry and blood. 
 
 Arista reined his white horse on the edge of the chaparral, and beheld 
 his broken army, in all the panic of a retreat. Upon their frightened 
 ranks rolled the full volume of Duncan's batteries. A space of earth, 
 some hundred yards in extent, was illumined by the setting sun, shining 
 through the clouds. Around that space all was dim and shadowy ; it 
 shone from the twilight of the field, like a broach of gold, set in a mantle 
 of rich brown. Into this illuminated space, thundered the cannon of Dun 
 can, pursuing a body of Mexicans, who, crowding upon each other, hur 
 ried wildly toward the chaparral. You see the cannon unlimbered, ar 
 rayed in battle order ; the half naked cannoniers are ready ; in a moment, 
 that band of Mexicans, at least five hundred in number, will be torn by 
 the cannister, and blown to pieces by the shell. 
 
 At this moment, a solitary horseman breaks from the Mexican ranks, 
 and holding a white flag above his head, speeds rapidly toward the fore 
 most of the American cannon. He rides a beautiful dark bay, whose eye 
 rolls with the madness of battle, as he sweeps with his master, right into 
 the muzzles of the formidable battery. 
 
 It is a young man with the dark hair flying back from his brow, with 
 the green uniform, thrown aside from his muscular throat, with the sun 
 light playing freely over himself and his bay steed. For a moment the 
 cannoniers ceased, while a murmur of admiration ran along the American 
 line. He came on a message of peace, that gallant youth, for fluttering 
 over his head the white flag stood out against the sky. 
 
 Near and nearer ; they can discern his features, see the wild light flash 
 ing in his eye. Not fifty yards from the muzzle of the foremost cannon, 
 he thunders on. Look ! He rises in his stirrups, he flings the white flag 
 from his bosom, he tears from his breast another flag the Tri-color of 
 Mexico ! 
 
 " Now !" he shouts in Spanish, his dark face convulsed with passion, 
 the frenzy of despair, as he waved that flag and crashed on, to the very 
 muzzle of the cannon "Now ! Let your cannon blaze I am ready !" 
 
 The cannon spoke, and its smoke encircled him like a curtain. Every 
 man held his breath as the cloud rolled away. The Mexican and his 
 horse were gone, and the sod was covered with the fragments of gory 
 flesh, mingled with the shreds of a tri-colored flag. 
 
 But the object of the gallant Boy, was gained. The last of the retreat 
 ing Mexicans, had time to disappear in the chaparral, as the death rushed 
 upon him. Many an eye was wet along the American line, as among 
 the grass appeared that youthful face, smiling in death amid the ruins of 
 his mangled body, while far away into the crimson cloud rolled the echoes 
 of the LAST SHOT OF PALO ALTO. 
 
PALO ALTO. 75 
 
 Night came down on Palo Alto, and beside a grey steed stood an old 
 man, leaning on his sheathed sword, his uncovered head bent upon his 
 breast, as his large eyes, shone with unusual light. The monuments of 
 the fight corses, arms and wounded were scattered around him. Above 
 his head, hung that thin mist, pestilential with the smell of gunpowder, 
 and through its veil shone the glad light of the evening star. Officers and 
 soldiers formed a circle round the old man, leaning on his sword. All 
 crimsoned with the traces of the fight, all darkened by the stain of powder, 
 they stood in silence, their heads uncovered in respect to that old man. 
 He drew his sheathed sword along the sod, with an involuntary gesture. 
 His heart was too full for words. That day, deeds had been done, which 
 history would never be tired of telling, deeds that would make her say in 
 one breath, WASHINGTON and TAYLOR. 
 
 Therefore the old man stood in silence, his heart too full for words, 
 while with his head drooped, he mechanically made circles with the end 
 of his sword on the cindered sod. 
 
 At last he spoke 
 
 " I think," he said, as the evening star, like a good omen, shone over 
 his brow "I think that we will reach Fort Brown" 
 
 It was then that the fullness of the soldiers' hearts, found vent in words. 
 Even as the soldiers of Napoleon hailed their young leader, standing amid 
 the trophies of battle, by the name of the Little Corporal, so on the field 
 of Palo Alto, the heroes of that day baptized Zachary Taylor with a 
 name, warm from their hearts. A common soldier, feeling his heart swell 
 with emotions that he could not speak, pointed to the old man, and blun 
 dered forth his admiration in three words, which leapt from lip to lip, 
 until they grew into a thunder shout 
 
 " ROUGH AA T D READY !" 
 
 Night came down upon the beleagued Fort, and the town of Matamoras. 
 Crowding to the shore, the people had heard that terrible cannonade, 
 continued for two hours, and in the Fort, the voice of Taylor's guns, came 
 like the trumpet peal of hope. All day long the shower of shot and shell 
 had rained its fury on the little band, but now, crowding to the ramparts 
 they raised their voices in a thunder shout. 
 
 A wounded soldier, who had rent his way through the Mexican lines, 
 came tottering toward the Fort, shouting as the blood poured from his 
 wounds " Taylor is coming ! Do not give it up now ! The old man is 
 on his way, and will be here !" 
 
 Then a shout went up again, which reached the ears of the veteran 
 Brown, who resting in his rude couch, racked by pain, lifted up his head 
 and exclaimed" I knew that he would come !" 
 
 And by the light of the setting sun, and by the first gleam of the Even 
 ing star, masses of Mexican cavalry and infantry might be seen crossing 
 
7 g THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 the Rio Grande, above and below the Fort, their arms flashing vengeance 
 for the disgrace of their flag. 
 
 It was a beautiful thing to see them glitter by thousands on the river, 
 while the damsels of Matamoras waved them farewell with their white 
 scarfs. It was a grand spectacle, their compact masses of horse, fresh as 
 their riders, and as eager for battle, march in battle array, from the river 
 to the shadows of the chaparral. They were hurrying to the aid of 
 Arista to-morrow, a new wall of cannon, horses, men and steel, woven 
 together, as with bands of iron, would intervene between old Zachary and 
 Fort Brown. Beautiful it was, I say, to see the going forth of this 
 army 
 
 But the coming back ? 
 
 The heart grows cold to think of it. Angel of death, hovering over 
 those legions, with the light of the evening star, upon your livid brow, 
 tell us, have you the heart to enter Matamoras now, and gaze upon those 
 children, who will be fatherless to-morrow, upon those wives who to 
 morrow will look for their husbands, and find them floating with cold 
 faces, on the river's wave, or seek for them in vain, among the heaps of 
 battle dead ? 
 
 The going forth is beautiful. To see these flags flutter so bravely 
 from the lances, like the foliage of those trees of death, to hear the bugles 
 speak out, but the morrow ? The coming back ? Hark ! through the 
 darkened air, did you not hear a sound, like the closing of a thousand 
 cofBn lids ? 
 
 Through the midnight darkness, which has descended upon the battle 
 field, the glare of torches breaks suddenly, like meteors glimmering over 
 the abyss of a swamp. Those torches light the surgeons on their way, 
 as they pass from the wounded to the dead, and bend over the mangled 
 skulls and broken arms the horrible summing up of the great game of 
 war. 
 
 There is a groan in yonder thicket. It is the cry of the wounded 
 wretch, as the knife of the Ranchero sinks into his heart. 
 
 A torch remarkable for its glaring light shone in the centre of the field. 
 
 Its beams lighted the faces of battle worn soldiers, who with their ap 
 parel rent, their faces stained with blood, took counsel with their General 
 on the morrow ! 
 
 In the midst of that band, he stood erect, a plain and unpretending 
 man, his faded brown coat torn in many places by the balls of the enemy, 
 his brow uncovered, and his right hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed 
 sword. 
 
 On his left, distinguished by his portly form, his massive features, and 
 hair white as snow, you might see Colonel Twiggs, who like his General 
 had seen long years of battle toil. 
 
PALO ALTO. 77 
 
 By his side, stood erect, a white haired man, the veteran M'Intosh. 
 Near him seated on a trunk, his tired head resting in his hands, the brave 
 Ridgely, who had done his part in the terror and glory of that Day. 
 Duncan was there, covered with the memorials of his last charge, with 
 Churchill by his side, and the other heroes grouped around. Above their 
 heads, the tent canopy, moved to every impulse of the breeze, and tri 
 umphantly in the light of the midnight stars of Palo Alto, waved the 
 Banner of the Stars. 
 
 " Shall we go on !" 
 
 A question to make men bow their heads and think. 
 
 By to-morrow's dawn at least nine thousand men, will build a wall of 
 flame and steel in our path. Defeat is Massacre. Victory against such 
 tremendous odds, a Miracle. At this very hour, in the American Union at 
 least one hundred thousand hearts, are palpitating in fearful anxiety for 
 us, afraid that every moment may bring the news of the utter slaughter 
 of Taylor and his Men. 
 
 Shall we go on ? 
 
 As the question throbs from heart to heart, the cries of dying men are 
 heard, mingled with the jackal's howl. 
 
 Duncan speaks, Twiggs pours forth his few emphatic words ; Ridgely 
 eloquent with the fever of to day's strife and the hope of to-morrow's 
 glory, looks in the old man's face, and cries with impassioned fervor 
 " Go on !" 
 
 May and Walker say nothing, but clutch their swords. 
 
 But there are other voices there. Glory we have won to day, but to 
 morrow ! let us not trifle with fate. Entrenched upon this field, we can 
 wait for reinforcements. Our countrymen will hear of our peril and our 
 glory, and their hearts and rifles will rush to the rescue. 
 
 As if from the excitement of the moment, Zachary Taylor draws his 
 sword, half way from its sheath. 
 
 Hark ! that sound every heart beats, and those soldiers who stand 
 erect, grasp their swords, and those who are seated, spring to their feet. 
 It is the signal gun of Fort Brown. 
 
 " Go on !" the words in a deep whisper, pass from lip to lip, and 
 every eye is fixed on Taylor's face. 
 
 The old man quietly dropped his sword to the sheath : 
 
 "TO MORROW NIGHT I WILL BE AT FORT BROWN IF I 
 LIVE." 
 
 At this moment a sublime sight was seen. Far along the eastern ho 
 rizon over the dark chaparral, a wall of clouds, black as death, without a 
 ray of light, to break its monotony of gloom, towers into the upper sky. 
 
 Save that wall of blackness, the sky is clear, glittering over its awful 
 dome, with the serene midnight of the stars. But look ! As we gaze 
 
78 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 upon (hat mass of dark cloud, raising like a Fort of Death, above the 
 gloomy horizon, along its border, runs a quivering thread of light. It 
 widens, it glows, until the cloud resembles an immense castle, illumined 
 on its battlements, with the rays of innumerable torches. 
 
 And then, beautiful and serene over the top of the cloud, bursts into 
 sight the Moon, shining her clear calm light over the tents and the ban 
 ners, over the cannon and the tired soldiers, bivouacking beneath their 
 muzzles, over the encircling chaparral, and the blasted field, over the 
 dying and dead of PALO ALTO, 
 
 V. KESACA UE LA PALMA. 
 
 Halting on the edge of the chaparral. The rein thrown carelessly on 
 the neck of his grey horse, Zachary Taylor looked back, and surveyed 
 the field of Palo Alto. 
 
 If the view had been ghastly by moonlight, it was horrible in the calm 
 clear light of that cloudless day. The Mexicans had fled through the 
 mazes of the southern chaparral. From that wall of prickly pear, 
 look to the south of Taylor and you will see it flashed the bayonets of 
 the American army. Certain companies of the heroic band were search 
 ing the wilderness for traces of the foe, while the main body of the army 
 halted on the southern verge of the prairie, the chaparral darkening be 
 hind their cannon and bayonets. 
 
 It was at the moment, that General Taylor, reining his steed, amid the 
 tall rank grass, near the wagons of the train, surveyed the field of Palo 
 Alto. A clear, bracing morning, with the song of birds in the air, and 
 beautiful prairie flowers blooming beneath his feet. 
 
 The wide field lay calmly beneath the smile of the morning sun. 
 Like an immense scar, the cinders of the prairie fire, blackened the centre 
 of the plain. Here and there, men with spades in their hands, moved 
 to and fro they were digging rude graves for their dead. 
 
 But the horses, mangled in masses, and stretched far over the plain, 
 the dead men, piled in heaps, their broken limbs, and cold faces, distinctly 
 seen by the light of the morning sun, still remained, amid the grass and 
 flowers, silent memorials of yesterday's Harvest of Death. 
 
 Even the old General could not repress a shudder, as he gazed upon 
 the terrible evidence of Duncan's last fire a line of dead men and horses, 
 darkening far away to the left. 
 
 At this moment, when in presence of the entire army, Taylor read the 
 alphabet of blood, upon the battle-field, was selected by Fate by Provi 
 dence by God for a scene of painful and singular interest. 
 
 A young soldier, mounted on a black horse, and covered with the traces 
 of the fight, the powder stain and the crimson drops of human hearts 
 rode from the chaparral and dismounted near the General. He flung 
 the reins on the neck of his steed, and stood for a moment, regarding 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 79 
 
 that sad prospect of the battle field. As his dilating eye shone with deep, 
 with bitter thoughts, from the shadow of his downcastbrow, his muscular 
 figure, attired in a plain blue frock coat, with a plain row of gold buttons, 
 presented a striking image of chivalric manhood. 
 
 Worn down, with the battle toil of the last twenty-four hours, with the 
 incessant hurrying to and fro, the severe duty that left no time for food 
 or slumber, the brave fellow, had ridden to the rear, to take some refresh 
 ment, and an hour's repose. 
 
 The eye of the General wandered from the battle-field, to the form of 
 the young soldier, and an expression of admiration lighted up his bronzed 
 face. It was the gallant Lieutenant, who the day before, in that breathless 
 moment, before the first fire, had ridden into the muzzles of Mexican 
 cannon, and with cool composure reconnoitered their array The Hero, 
 BLAKE. 
 
 Taylor looks upon him, as he is in the act of receiving a cup of water 
 from the hands of a soldier, and turns his eyes to the field again. Scarce 
 a moment passes, and then his gaze seeks the hero's face : once more. 
 Where does he behold him ? 
 
 Writhing on the sod, in all the agony of a mortal wound, his body rent 
 upward by a pistol ball ! 
 
 Yes, as he took the cup of water, he flung his holsters on the 
 ground. One of the pistols exploded, even as it struck the ground, and 
 laid him quivering on the sod, beside its smoking tube. 
 
 " Alas !" cried the brave fellow, writhing in his death agony " Alas ! 
 That I did not fall in the battle of yesterday !" 
 
 For a few hours he lingered, and then was clay. As he yielded his 
 spirit, the thunder of the cannonade, echoing from the south, sung his 
 death-hymn. There came a day, when Philadelphia put on mourning for 
 her son, and brought his dead body home, amid the tribute of a People's 
 tears. 
 
 While Zachary Taylor gazed upon his prostrate form, the moment 
 after he fell, there came from the south, the clear, deep crack of a rifle, 
 that sound spoke to the old man's heart. It was the first shot of the 
 Twin-Sister of Palo Alto RESACA DE LA PALMA. 
 
 Presently there appeared on the verge of the chaparral, the form of a 
 sunburnt soldier, dressed in a green ranger's frock, and mounted on a steed 
 that flung the foam from his flanks, as he whirled his rider along to Gene 
 ral Taylor's side. 
 
 It was Captain WALKER, bearing to the old commander, the first Intelli 
 gence of Arista and his army. 
 
 Away through the wilderness, along the road that leads to Fort Brown, 
 until we behold the Mexican army. 
 
 Forth from his splendid tent, erected in the depths of chaparral, issued 
 
gn THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Arista, his form blazing with stars and orders, while his dark face, varied 
 by the well-known red moustache, manifested not so much chagrin for 
 yesterday's defeat, as hope for the triumph of to-day. 
 
 The white horse splendidly caparisoned, the saddle glittering like one 
 mass of silver, awaits his master. Bounding into the saddle, he dashes 
 through the paths of the chaparral, and surveys his formidable army. It 
 must be confessed that he had every reason for that feeling of pride, which 
 gave such a glow to his face, such fire in his eyes. Behind him was seen 
 the glittering circle of his staff officers, all handsomely mounted and gaily 
 appareled. Ampudia, with his sinister look and lowering brow, alone 
 seemed to detract from the chivalry of that warrior's band. There, too, 
 bestriding an elegant brown charger, whose glossy skin shone like velvet 
 in the morning light, was seen the graceful LA VEGA, slender in form, rich 
 olive in complexion, luxuriant in his dark hair, and silken beard, the very 
 ideal of a Castilian cavalier of old. 
 
 Wherever Arista looked, to the right or the left, forward or in the rear, 
 the prickly pear bore a dazzling fruit, looking very much like the sharp steel 
 of the lance, the deadly point of the bayonet. Horses, too, in solid 
 legions, backed by brave riders, who, refreshed by food and slumber, were 
 eager to retrieve the fortunes of yesterday. And as Arista passed, a half 
 suppressed shout was heard, and the full bands clanged out their battle 
 music. 
 
 This was the manner in which the Mexicans were prepared for battle. 
 Behold their death-like, yes, we must confess it, their terrible array. 
 
 Across the road, leading to Fort Brown, a ravine extends near a hundred 
 feet wide, and four feet high. In the rainy season, the ravine becomes a 
 torrent, it overflows the road, and dashes away to the Rio Grande. Even 
 now in its depths sparkle lakelets of clear deep water, and on its southern 
 bank, the chaparral forms an impenetrable wall. 
 
 The ravine is called RESACA DE LA PALMA. 
 
 Along this ravine, and on either side of the road, the Mexicans extend, 
 nine thousand strong, a crescent of cannon and horses, men and steel. 
 
 One line is hidden behind yonder bank, another shrouds its cannon, its 
 horses, its men, beneath the shadows of the southern chaparral. 
 
 In the centre of each line the battery glooms : yonder, to the right of 
 the first line, you see another group of these death engines. 
 
 From an open space, near the road, Arista gazed upon the battle array, 
 and turns with a smile to his general. That smile means much, it means 
 that the American flag to day will bow before the flag of Mexico, in the 
 depths of that ravine, whose banks shall swell with a torrent, not of water, 
 but of blood. 
 
 For, as you may see, old Zachary Taylor, in order to reach Fort Brown, 
 must pass along the road, cut a way with his seventeen hundred men, 
 through the breasts of some nine thousand Mexicans, who have 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 81 
 
 chosen their position at leisure, and whose cannon commands the road on 
 either side. 
 
 And there, eager to meet the old war-horse, who foiled them yesterday, 
 stands arrayed in battle order, the bravest band of the whole army, iron 
 men, hardened by the tropical sun, and the battle blaze, the heroes of 9, 
 hundred civil conflicts, the veteran Battalion of Tampico. Above theic 
 heads waves their beautiful banner, embroidered by the hands of beautr 
 ful women, and sanctified by the prayers of nuns, bearing beneath the 
 eagle and serpent, the simple legend : BATTALON GUARDA COSTA DE 
 TAMPICO. 
 
 Gazing on his army, Arista sent his commands to the menials of his 
 camp, to bring forth his choicest plate, to bury his wines in ice, and to 
 light the fires, in order to prepare the Festival of victory, by the setting, 
 of the sun. 
 
 It was four o'clock, when, with a cloudless sky above, and the chaparraV 
 far and wide, thronged with Mexican legions, the battle began its bloody 
 career. 
 
 It was four o'clock, when Arista saw advancing from the opposita 
 thickets, a bluff old warrior, dressed in a brown coat, with a grey steed 
 beneath him. The sun shone clearly upon the old warrior as he came on, 
 and Arista knew that the hour was near. 
 
 Hark ! The tramp as of a thousand warriors thundering through the 
 northern chaparral, and as you listen, it grows near and nearer to the 
 right, to the left, and yonder in the front of the ravine, the bayonets come 
 dazzling into the sun. 
 
 There rides Captain Walker at the head of his Texian band, there 
 Ridgely glorious with the mantle of the fallen Ringgold, comes with his 
 cannon to battle, while in the front, those bayonets, bursting like lightning 
 from the bushes move rapidly toward the ravine. 
 
 Sixteen hundred men advance against nine thousand it is a moment ot 
 breathless suspense. 
 
 All at once, as hushing your breath, with fear of the tremendous result* 
 of this fight, you watch tremblingly for its commencement, all at once, 
 the Third, Fourth and Fifth regiments rush on, their bayonets forming a 
 crescent of dazzling steel, above their heads. 
 
 They line the bank of the ravine, and in a moment the copper hail 
 rushes through their ranks, and the white cloud of battle shuts them in 
 From the northern bank of the Resaca de la Palma, from the southerc 
 wall of the chaparral, pours the storm of the Mexican cannon, while Ridgely 
 is rushing to the encounter, and Duncan unlimbering his pieces, answers 
 roar with roar, and lights the field with his blaze. 
 
 From the verge of the ravine pours the steady fire of our musquetry 
 our men come crowding to the attack, they spring upon the Mexican 
 bayonets, they enter the bed of the Ravine, and the chaparral, which not 
 
 10 
 
82 THE BATTLES OF TAILOR. 
 
 five minutes ago, was quiet as the tomb, now blazes and howls like a vol 
 cano bursting suddenly from the waters of a waveless sea. 
 
 Through the folds of smoke, you may see Ridgely's men, their bronzed 
 forms bared to. the waist, plying their deadly task. Around his battery 
 sweep the bayonets of the Fifth infantry, with the grey-haired M'Intosh 
 in their midst yonder, on the edge of the ravine, Duncan, with his can 
 non ready for the conflict, pauses in his fire, unable to distinguish friend 
 from foe, in the whirlpool of the fight, which swells and rages through the 
 deadly pass. 
 
 His grey eye blazing with the excitement of the battle, Zachary Taylor 
 sat quietly on his grey steed, with the cannon balls of the enemy tearing 
 the earth all around him, and felt the moment for a decisive blow had 
 come. 
 
 Amid the smoke and flame that rolled and blazed above the deadly 
 ravine, he clearly saw the whirlpool of the fight. 
 
 On to the front bank, pressed the American infantry, pouring the blaze 
 of musquetry into the faces of the Mexicans, and then, hurling their solid 
 force into the ravine, as one man, they charged them home. On either 
 side their bayonets were seen glittering above the battle clouds. From 
 the rear ridge the most formidable battery in the second line of the Mexi 
 can array, swept the air with a shower of poisonous copper balls. Ridgely's 
 blaze made answer, and Duncan, arranging his pieces in battle order, sent 
 his cannon shout thundering through the darkening cloud. 
 
 Beneath this pall of smoke and flame, this canopy of whirling balls, 
 the American infantry hurling themselves into the ravine, drove back the 
 foe. Charging them with bayonets, cutting them down with their short 
 swords, they fought for every in^h of ground, and fought everywhere, on 
 the earth that rocked with the cannon thunder, in the lagoons that blushed 
 with blood, beneath the banks, where the dying and the dead began to 
 swell in ghastly heaps. It was, indeed, a bloody contest. Here the vete 
 rans of Mexico, recoiling one moment, only to roll back again in all the 
 terror of blaze and bayonet there, the Americans advancing without a 
 shout, never heeding for a moment, their comrades, who with arms torn 
 off" and heads unroofed, sank in mangled masses, at every step, but holding 
 on their way, every bayonet charging against the bayonet of an enemy, 
 every eye glaring steadily into the face of a foe. 
 
 Amid the scene, like wrecks on the waves of a stormy sea, tossed to 
 and fro, the tri-color of Mexico and the Banner of the Stars. 
 
 Still from the rear ridge, swept the concentrated fury of the Mexican 
 batteries, their flame and copper hail curtaining the troops below, as again 
 and again they rushed to the charge. 
 
 Taylor saw it all, and knew the moment for the blow had come the 
 blow which was to decide the battle,' and hurl the Mexican army back 
 into the Rio Grande. 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 83 
 
 You may see him bending over the neck of his steed, his battle-worn 
 face glowing redly in each flash, as his eye roves from point to point, and 
 at a glance, takes in the panorama of blood. 
 
 At this moment, he sent to the rear for an officer of the dragoons, and 
 awaited his appearance in undisguised suspense. 
 
 There was a day, when an old man with white hair, sat alone in the 
 small chamber of a National Mansion, his spare but muscular figure rest 
 ing on an arm chair, his hands clasped, and his deep blue eyes gazing 
 through the window upon the cloudless winter sky. The brow of the old 
 man, furrowed with wrinkles, his hair rising in straight masses, white as 
 the driven snow, his sunken cheeks traversed by marked lines, and thiu 
 lips, fixedly compressed, all announced a long and stormy life. All the 
 marks of an Iron Will were written upon his face. 
 
 His name, I need not tell you, was Andrew Jackson, and he sat alone 
 in the White House. 
 
 A visitor entered without being announced, and stood before the Presi 
 dent in the form of a boy of nineteen, clad in a coarse round jacket and 
 trousers, and covered from head to foot with mud. As he stood before 
 the President, cap in hand, the dark hair falling in damp clusters about 
 his white forehead, the old man could not help surveying at a rapid glance, 
 the muscular beauty of his figure, the broad chest, the sinewy arms, the 
 head placed proudly on the firm shoulders. 
 
 " Your business ?" said the old man, in his short, abrupt way. 
 
 " There is a Lieutenancy vacant in the Dragoons. Will you give it 
 to me ?" 
 
 And dashing back the dark hair which fell over his face, the Boy, as 
 if frightened at his boldness, bowed low before the President. 
 
 The old man could not restrain that smile. It wreathed his firm lip, 
 and shone from his clear eyes. 
 
 * You enter my chamber unannounced, covered from head to foot with 
 mnd you tell me, that a Lieutenancy is vacant, and ask me to give it to 
 you. Who are you?" 
 
 " Charles May !" The Boy did not bow this time, but with his right 
 hand on his hip, stood like a wild young Indian, erect, in the presence of 
 the President. 
 
 ' What claims have you to a commission ?" again the Hero surveyed 
 him, and again he faintly smiled. 
 
 " Such as you see !" exclaimed the boy, as his dark eyes shone with 
 that dare-devil light, while his young form swelled in every muscle, as 
 with the conscious pride of his manly strength and beauty. " Would 
 you " he bent forward, sweepjng aside his curls once more, while a 
 smile began to break over his lips " Would you like to see me ride ? 
 My horse is at the door. You see, I came post haste for this commission." 
 
84 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Silently the old man followed the Boy, and together they went forth 
 from the White House. It was a clear, cold winter's day ; the wind 
 lossed the President's white hairs, and the leafless trees stood boldly out 
 against the deep blue sky. Before the portals of the White House, with 
 the rein thrown loosely on his neck, stood a magnificent horse, his dark 
 hide smoking with foam. He uttered a shrill neigh as his Boy-Master 
 sprang with a bound into the saddle, and in a flash was gone, skimming 
 like a swallow down the road, his mane and tail streaming in the breeze. 
 
 The old man looked after them, the Horse and his Rider, and knew not 
 which to admire most, the athletic beauty of the boy, or the tempestuous 
 vigor of the horse. 
 
 Thrice they threaded the avenues in front of the White House, and at 
 last stood panting before the President, the boy leaning over the neck of 
 his steed, as he coolly exclaimed " Well how do you like me ?" 
 
 "Do you think you could kill an Indian?" the President said, taking 
 him by the hand, as he leapt from his horse. 
 
 " Aye and eat him afterwards !" cried the boy, ringing out his fierce 
 laugh, as he read his fate in the old man's eyes. 
 
 " You had better come in and get your Commission ;" and the Hero 
 of New Orleans led the way into the White House. 
 
 There came a night, when an old man President no longer sat in the 
 silent chamber of his Hermitage home, a picture of age, trembling on the 
 verge of Eternity. The light that stood upon his table, revealed his 
 shrunken form, resting against the pillows which cushioned his arm chair, 
 and the death-like pallour of his venerable face. In that face, with its 
 white hair and massive forehead, everything seemed already dead, except 
 the eyes. Their deep grey-blue shone with the fire of New Orleans, as 
 the old man, with his long white fingers, grasped a letter post-marked 
 " Washington." 
 
 " They ask me to designate the man who shall lead our army, in case 
 the annexation of Texas brings on a war with Mexico " his voice, deep- 
 toned and thrilling, even in that hour of decrepitude and decay, rung 
 through the silence of the chamber. " There is only one man who can 
 do it, and his name is ZACHARY TAYLOR." 
 
 It was a dark hour, when this Boy and this General, both appointed at 
 the suggestion or by the voice of the Man of the Hermitage, met in the 
 battle of Resaca de la Palma. 
 
 By the blaze of cannon, and beneath the canopy of battle smoke, we 
 will behold the meeting. 
 
 " Captain May, you must take that battery !" 
 
 As the old man, uttered these words, he pointed far across the ravine 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 85 
 
 with his sword. It was like the glare of a volcano the steady blaze of 
 that battery, pouring from the darkness of the chaparral. 
 
 Before him, summoned by his command, from the rear, rose the form 
 of a splendid soldier, whpse hair waving in long masses, swept his broad 
 shoulders, while his beard, fell over his muscular chest. Hair and beard 
 as dark as midnight, framed a determined face, surmounted by a small cap, 
 glittering with a single golden tassel. The young warrior, bestrode a 
 magnificent charger, broad in the chest, small in the head, delicate in each 
 slender limb, and with the nostrils quivering as though they shot forth, 
 jets of flame. That steed was black as death. 
 
 Without a word, the soldier turned to his men. 
 
 Eighty-four forms, with throats and breasts bare, eighty-our battle horses, 
 eighty-four sabres, that rose in the clutch of naked arms, and flashed 
 their lightning over eighty-four faces, knit in every feature with battle-fire. 
 
 " Men, follow !" shouted the young Commander, who had been created 
 a soldier by the hand of Jackson, as his tall form, rose in the stirrups, and 
 the battle breeze played with his long black hair. 
 
 There was no resp'onse in words, but you should have seen those horses 
 quiver beneath the spur, and spring and launch away ! Down upon the 
 sod, with one terrible beat, came the sound of their hoofs, while through 
 the < "r, rose in glittering circles, those battle scimitars. 
 
 Four yards in front, rode May, himself and his horse, the object of a 
 thousand eyes, so certain was the death, that gloomed before him, proudly 
 in his warrior beauty, he backed that steed, his hair, floating beneath his 
 cap, in massy curls upon the wind. 
 
 He turns his head ; his men see his face, knit in the lip, and woven in 
 the brow they feel the fire of his eyes they hear, not men forward ! 
 but Men, follow; and away, like, like a huge battle engine, composed of 
 eighty-four men and horses, woven together by swords away and on 
 they dash. 
 
 They near the ravine ; old Taylor follows them, with hushed breath, 
 aye, clutching his sword hlit, he sees the golden tassel of May, gleaming 
 in the cannon flash. 
 
 They are on the verge of the ravine, May still in the front, his charger, 
 flinging the earth, from beneath him, with colossal leaps, when from 
 among the cannon, starts up, a half-clad figure, red with blood and be 
 grimed with powder. 
 
 It is Ridgely, who to day has sworn, to wear the Mantle of Ringgold, 
 and to wear it well ! At once his eyes, catch the light now blazing in the 
 eyes of May, springing to the cannon, he shouts 
 
 " One moment, my comrade ! And I will draw their fire !" 
 
 The word is not passed from his lips, when his cannon speak out, to 
 the battery across the ravine. His flash, his smoke, have not gone, when 
 
86 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 hark ! Did you hear that storm of copper balls, clatter against his can 
 non, did you see it dig the earth, beneath the hoofs of May's squadron. 
 
 " Men, follow !" Do you see that face, gleaming with battle fire, that 
 
 scimiter, cutting its glittering circle in the air ? Those men, can hold 
 
 their shouts no longer. Rending the air with cries hark ! The whole 
 
 army echo them they strike their spurs, and worried into madness, their 
 
 horses whirl on, and thunder away, to the deadly ravine. 
 
 The old man, Taylor said after the battle, that he never felt his heart 
 beat, as it did then. 
 
 For it was a glorious sight to see, that young man, MAY, at the head 
 of his squadron, dashing across the ravine, four yards in advance of his 
 foremost man, while long and dark behind him, was stretched the solid 
 line of warriors and their steeds. 
 
 Through the windows of the clouds some gleams of sunlight fall they 
 light the golden tassel on the cap, they glitter on the upraised sword, they 
 illumine the dark horse, and his rider, with their warm glow, they reveal 
 the battery, you see it, above the farther bank of the ravine, frowning 
 death from every muzzle. 
 
 Near and nearer, up and on ! Never heed the Death before you, though 
 it is certain. Never mind the leap, though it is terrible. But up the 
 bank and over the cannon hurrah ! At this dread moment, just as his 
 horse rises for the charge, MAY turns and sees the sword of the brave 
 INGE on his right, turns again and reads his own soul written in the fire 
 of SACKETT'S eye. 
 
 To his Men once more he turns, his hair floating back behind him, he 
 points to the cannon, to the steep bank and the certain death, and as 
 though inviting them, one and all, to his Bridal Feast, he says 
 
 " COME !" 
 
 They did come. It would have made your blood dance to see it. As 
 one man, they whirled up the bank, following May's sword as they would 
 a banner, and striking madly home as they heard through the roar of 
 battle they heard it that word of frenzy " COME !" 
 
 As one mass of bared chests, leaping horses, and dazzling scimitars, 
 they charged upon the bank ; the cannon's fire rushed into their faces 
 INGE, even as his shout rang on the air, was laid a mangled thing beneath 
 his steed, his throat torn open by a cannon shot, Sackett was buried be 
 neath his horse, and seven dragoons fell at the battery's muzzles, their 
 blood and brains whirling into their comrades eyes. 
 
 Still May is yonder, above the cloud, his horse rioting over heaps of 
 dead, as with his sabre, circling round his flowing hair, he cuts his way 
 through the living wall, and says to his comrades Come ! 
 
 All around him, friend and foe, their swords locked together yonder 
 the blaze of musquetry showering the iron hail upon his band beneath 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 87 
 
 his horse's feet the deadly cannon and the ghastly corse, still that young 
 soldier riots on, for Taylor has said, Silence that battery, and he will do it. 
 
 The Mexicans are driven from their guns ; their cannon are silenced, 
 and May's heroic band, scattering among the mazes of the chaparral, are 
 entangled in a wall of bayonets. Once more the combat deepens, and 
 dyes the sod in blood. Hedged in by that wall of steel, May gathers 
 eight of his men, and hews his way back toward the captured battery. 
 As his charger rears, his sword circles above his head, and sinks blow 
 after blow into the foemen's throats. To the left a shout is heard ; the 
 Americans, led on by Graham and Pleasanton and Winship, have silenced 
 the battery there, while the whole fury of the Mexican army, seems con 
 centrated to crush May and his band. 
 
 As he went through their locked ranks, so he comes back. Every 
 where his men know him by his hair, waving in dark masses, his golden 
 tinselled cap, his sword, they know it too, and wherever it falls, hear 
 the gurgling groan of mortal agony. 
 
 Back to the captured cannon he cuts his way, and on the brink of the 
 ravine beholds a sight that fires his blood. 
 
 A solitary Mexican stands there, reaching forth his arms, in all the 
 frenzy of a brave man's despair, he entreats his countrymen to turn, to 
 man the battery once more, and hurl its fury on the foe. They shrink 
 back appalled, before that dark horse, and its rider, May ! The Mexican, 
 a gallant young man, whose handsome features can scarce be distinguished 
 on account of the blood which covers them, while his rent uniform bears 
 testimony to his deeds, in that day's carnage, clenches his hand, as he 
 flings his curse in the face of his flying countrymen, and then, lighted match 
 in hand, springs to the cannon. 
 
 A moment and its fire will scatter ten American soldiers into the dust. 
 
 Even as the brave Mexican bends near the cannon, the dark charger, 
 with one tremendous leap is there, and the sword of May is circling over 
 his head. 
 
 " Yield !" shouted the voice, which only a few moments ago, when 
 rushing to death, said " Come !" 
 
 The Mexican beheld the gallant form before him, and handed Captain 
 May his sword. 
 
 " General La Vega is a prisoner !" he said, and stood with folded arms, 
 amid the corses of his mangled soldiers. 
 
 You may see May deliver his prisoner into the charge of the brave 
 Lieutenant Stephens, who when Inge fell dashed bravely on. 
 
 Then would you look for May once more, gaze through that wall of 
 bayonets, beneath that gloomy cloud, and behold him crashing into the 
 whirlpool of the fight, his long hair, his sweeping beard, and sword that 
 never for an instant stays its lightning career, making him look like the 
 embodied Demon of this battle day. 
 
88 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 In the roar of the battle behold this picture. Where May dashed lik 
 a thunderbolt from his side, General Taylor, in his familiar brown coat, 
 still remains. Near him, gazing on the battle with interest keen as hi 
 own, the stout form, the stern visage of his brother soldier Twiggs. They 
 have followed with flashing eyes, the course of May, they have seen him 
 charge, and seen his men and horses hurled back in their blood, while 
 still he thundered on. At this moment, the brave LA VEGA is led into 
 the presence of Taylor, his arms folded over his breast, his eyes fixed 
 upon the ground 
 
 As the noble-hearted General expresses his sorrow, that the captive's 
 fate has fallen on one so brave, as, in obedience to the command of Twiggs, 
 the soldiers, arranged in battle order, salute the Prisoner with presented 
 arms, there comes rushing to the scene the form of May, mounted on his 
 well-known charger. 
 
 " General, you told me to silence that battery. I have done it !' 
 
 He placed in the hands of Zachary Taylor, the sword of the brava 
 La Vega. 
 
 Again the contest thickens in the ravine, and once more the brave Mex> 
 icans come swarming to the rescue. Around their batteries they gather 
 fighting in sullen silence about their voiceless guns, and through the whiti 
 smoke you behold gleaming into light the bayonets of the Fifth Regiment. 
 Scarcely have they rushed with one impulse and one shout, upon the 
 batteries, when Colonel Belknap at the head of the Eighth, is seen mov 
 ing along the road he comes, waving the Banner of the Stars in his hand 
 a whispered word to the men about him, and up the bank, and into the 
 ranks of the Tampico veterans hand to hand, foot to foot, eye blazing in 
 eye, they engage in the deadly conflict. 
 
 These men of Tampico are no cowards. They receive the Americans 
 with the bayonet, and fighting over their silenced guns, stab them one by 
 one, with the knife. A shout a blaze ! Colonel Belknap is down, th 
 staff of his standard broken by a ball ; a cry of vengeance thunders through 
 the battle air. 
 
 Then occurs the most deadly contest of the day. Amid the clouds of 
 smoke, even where the battle whirlpool rages in its fiery vortex, you may 
 see the plume of PAYNE, who yesterday saw Ringgold die. There, th< 
 golden tassel, the long hair and terrible scimitar of May, the white hairi 
 of M'Intosh, the bloody face of CHADBOURNE, rising for a moment, and 
 then sinking to shout the battle cry no more. 
 
 It is a terrible wall of bayonet and flame, which brightens and burnfe 
 from every nook of the chaparral, but the Americans are not to be turned 
 back in their steady course. Every Regiment is doing immortal deeds 
 for the Banner the Third, the Fourth, the Fifth, the Eighth they are all 
 there, in the ravine, among the bloody lakes and up the deadly bank. 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 89 
 
 Morris and Allen, Hays and Woods, Buchanan and Barbour, Lincoln and 
 Jourdan, you may see them in every part of the scene, their swords rising 
 as with one impulse, while their men follow them into the very jaws of 
 death. And suddenly a cloud rolls over the chaparral, and like a shroud 
 enfolds the scene of murder. 
 
 Hark ! Shouts from the bosom of the cloud hark ! The deadly 
 clang of bayonet against bayonet, the death cry and the wild hurrah, min 
 gle in one fiendish chorus. Men are dying everywhere you see their 
 ghastly faces in the waters of the lagoon, spouting blood into its bloody 
 pool, beneath the silent cannon, as their skulls crushed into the sod, you 
 hear their -rgling cry ; amid the thickets of the chaparral, you count their 
 butchered ^rses. 
 
 Sixteen hundred men, you will remember, are doing battle with nine 
 thousand. Not on a level plain, as yesterday, but in the pass of a dark 
 ravine, amid the assassin-ambuscades of a tangled chaparral, through 
 lakelets knee deep, yes, breast high, every wave burdened with the bodies 
 of the dead ! . 
 
 In a whirlpool of carnage like this, it is difficult to forget the roar, the 
 smoke, the blaze, and gaze calmly upon the individual deeds of chivalry 
 and murder. Yet, dipping our pencil in the blood of human hearts, and 
 lighted in our task by the glare of battle, we will crouch here in the 
 chaparral, and try to paint them all. 
 
 Taylor is on his horse, too near the ravine, his face lights every instant 
 by the glare, the sod every moment, dashing against the flanks of the old 
 grey, as the cannon balls, plough the grass into furrows. The soldiers 
 beg the old man, not to peril his life, the officers surround him, and would 
 turn his steed aside, from the fury of the battle. 
 
 What is it the old man says ? 
 
 " Look there !" with a quiet wave of his sword. And toward the right a 
 battalion of Americans, on the borders of the ravine, not two hundred 
 strong, are threatened by a solid mass of horse and foot, who come thun 
 dering over the pass. Beautifully they rush to battle, their lances flutter 
 ing with crimson flags, their sharp steel glittering in deadly lines. It is a 
 terrible sight, and the American battalion, quivers, it moves, not to the ra 
 vine, but backward, with a tremulous impulse. For, a contest with such 
 an overwhelming force, cannot be called a fight ; it is a Murder, a .Mas 
 sacre. 
 
 " Look there !" says the old man Zachary, and bounding from the en 
 circling officers, he spurs his grey steed forward, and in a moment, 
 plunges into the centre of the battalion's square. 
 
 " I am here, in the centre of your square !" 
 
 That old man, on his grey horse, with his form covered with a plain 
 brown coat, presents a sight, at once heroic and sublime. Around him 
 
 11 
 
90 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 two hundred bayonets yonder, not thirty yards in front, the advancing 
 mass of Mexicans, horse and foot, at least one thousand strong. 
 
 " I am here in the centre of the square !" he says, and every foot is 
 rooted to the sod. 
 
 No other words are needed. Silently they receive the terror of the 
 Mexican charge. Bayonet to bayonet, the breast of man offered to the 
 war-horse chest, they receive them, as they come up the bank, without 
 one hurrah. But that fire, did you see that sudden flash, light up the 
 entire Mexican array ? That smoke, did you see its pall, gather them in ? 
 
 Now, they shout, now plunging down the bank, they charge the Mex 
 icans home, and precipitate the silent butchery of the bayonet, upon their 
 splendid array. Again that shout the Mexicans quiver, every horse re 
 coiling on the horse behind him, every rank, falling back, on the next 
 line, until men and horses, whirl together, like a thousand v/aves, meetino- 
 in one centre. Not a moment to recover themselves, not a pause for 
 thought again that wild hurrah ! 
 
 Old Zachary, left alone on the verge of the bank, laughs quietly to him 
 self, as he sees, beneath the curtain of clouds, that glorious sight the 
 Mexican array, shattered in its centre, broken on each wing, give way and 
 scatter in mad disorder, along the battle ravine. 
 
 Paint for me, that picture, some Painter, whose heart glows into his 
 canvass, at the memory of heroic deeds a bluff' old warrior, mounted on 
 his old grey steed, bending forward, with extended hand, and brightening 
 eye, as gazing into the shadows of the ravine below, he sees two hundred 
 soldiers, burst like wounded tigers on a thousand, and at one charge level 
 their solid ranks into dust. 
 
 Beyond the ravine, the battle went on, in horrible fury. 
 
 A picture from its scenes of carnage ! 
 
 Do you see that wall of darkening chaparral, with horses and men, 
 appearing at every interval, and lances shining from the thorns, as though 
 they grew there ? 
 
 It lies beyond the ravine, beyond the silenced batteries. At the head 
 of the Fifth Regiment, a white-haired man, with his bared arm, grasping 
 a sharp sword, spurs the Roan war-horse, and plunges into the ravine. 
 
 He is the first of the band ; beautiful and bright the bayonets of his 
 Regiment, sparkle through the shadows behind him. As he plunges, a 
 murderous fire rushes into his face it shrieks away over the regiment 
 but he is gone from the eyes of. his men, gone through the chaparral, into 
 covert not ten yards square. The instant, he plunges into the shadow, 
 he feels his horse, the noble roan, quiver, and with a howl he goes down. 
 
 Springing from beneath his dead horse, the solitary warrior, darts to 
 his feet, and finds himself alone in the covert, and at a glance, beholds it 
 lined by foes with bayonet and lances, in their muscular arms. 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 91 
 
 It was worth ten year's life, to see how the solitary warrior met his 
 foes. 
 
 A tall old man, with firm, even severe features, his wrinkled cheeks, 
 whitened by his beard, his hair the color of snow, he set his lips firmly 
 together, and placing one foot on his dead horse, looked into their faces, 
 with a grey eye, that burned like a flame. His coat, had been torn from 
 his form, and his broad chest, with the shirt thrown open, heaved in long 
 deep respirations. 
 
 Even the Mexicans could not repress a yell of admiration ! Alone, 
 in that covert, with not an arm to aid him, the grey-bearded warrior, stood, 
 with his foot on his dead horse, his bared arm grasping the sword that 
 flashed its light into twenty tawny faces. 
 
 As one man, they rushed upon him. It was a sickening sight. Here, 
 a lancer, bending over the neck of his horse, his lance in rest, and the 
 point levelled at the old man's heart ; by his side, a soldier, with the 
 sharp bayonet, glittering near the throat of his victim ; all around, a cir 
 cle of deadly knives, glittering in the clutch of bony arms. 
 
 The American warrior, merely said, between his clenched teeth 
 " Come on !" and with his solitary sword, received their charge. For a 
 moment he beats them back, for a moment splintering this lance, and un 
 fixing that bayonet, he presses his dead steed with a firm foot, and main 
 tains his position against twenty men. 
 
 But then occurs a scene to make the curse quiver from the lips of a 
 saint ! 
 
 They rush upon him, a cloud of lances, knives, bayonets. He is down, 
 upon his dead steed, battling still, against his crowding foes. 
 
 Do you see, that grim figure, bending over him, as with one blow he 
 hurls his bayonet into the old man's throat ? That piece of cold steel, 
 enters his mouth, and appears behind his ear ! 
 
 Still, balding over his dead horse, the old warrior fights for his life. He 
 seizes the very musket, to which the bayonet is attached, and with his 
 sword, shortened like a dagger, plunges it upward, into the chest of his 
 foe. At the same moment, the blood gushes from his own mouth, and 
 from the mouth of the writhing Mexican. 
 
 Covered with the read stream, he rises once more, tears the bayonet 
 from his mouth, and shaking his bared arm, before his bloody face, says 
 to them all 
 
 " Come on ! Cowards as you are, you shall see how an old soldier 
 can die !" 
 
 A heroic picture ! The battle flame beyond the covert, glares through 
 this wall of prickly pear, and flashes upon his white hairs and bloody 
 face, in bluish light. So tall, so firm, so erect upon his dead horse he 
 stands, while round him, as if spell-bound by the sight, darkens the cir- 
 
92 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 cle of his foes. O, had one drop of heroic blood, throbbed in their veins, 
 they would have spared^ him then ! 
 
 Ask mercy from the tigress robbed of her young, or even from the 
 British soldier, drunk with ale and blood, but not from the Mexican Ran 
 ch ero ! 
 
 They hurled themselves upon him, their lances, bayonets and knives, 
 forming a woven circle of steel around his bloody face for a moment he 
 battled against such formidable odds, and then upon his dead horse, he 
 fell once more. One bayonet pierced his thigh, another pinned to the 
 sod, his shattered arm. The blood from the wound on his throat, crim 
 soned his white hairs, and trickled in ghastly patches over his chest. Now 
 look your last, upon that glimpse of God's beautiful sky, old man, and 
 feel the ties of Home about your heart once more, for there is Death, in 
 every blade, that flashes above your gory head. 
 
 For a moment, change the scene. Beyond the ravine, on the M r ay to 
 Fort Brown, the narrow road, is broken by the waters of a lakelet or 
 lagoon. Look, yonder toward the north, and see the cannon of Duncan 
 come, with Ridgeley's glooming near, and the bayonets of Captain Smith's 
 infantry, the sword's of Captain Kerr's dragoons glittering on every 
 side. 
 
 Ridgely and Duncan heroes of Palo Alto come crashing over the 
 ravine, along the road, toward the lagoon. O, the wild excitement of the 
 moment, when each hero, looks upon his grim cannon, and feels that they 
 will speak, and speak thunder and lightning, ere you may count ten ! 
 
 From the Fort Brown side of the lagoon, a deadly fire hurls its hail into 
 the faces of the advancing soldiers. 
 
 Duncan, his form quivering with the hope of battle, turns and looks for 
 an officer, who will support him with infantry, while he crashes over the 
 lagoon, and tells the Mexicans how much he loves them, from the throats 
 of his cannon. 
 
 Forth from the thicket, stalks with measured strides, a half-naked man, 
 his shirt thrown open on his bloody chest, his white hairs clotted with 
 crimson drops. For a moment he walks with that measured pace, but 
 then his step becomes unsteady, he stands erect, his lips compressed, as 
 he presses his hands to his throat. 
 
 Duncan is terrified, appalled at the sight. It is evident that the half- 
 naked man before him, is suffering intolerable torture. 
 
 " Colonel," he shrieks, in a voice broken by emotion " Can I be of 
 any service to you ?" 
 
 As the old man unclosed his lips, the blood gushed forth 
 
 " Water !" he gasped, and then as the memory of that horrible encoun 
 ter in the covert, crowded upon him, he exclaimed " My Regiment ? 
 Where is it ?" 
 
 The sun of Resaca de la Palma shone on no braver man, than this vete- 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 93 
 
 ran, whom we now behold, baptized in blood the white-haired Colonel 
 M'INTOSII. 
 
 For a while we leave the Battle. 
 
 We will speed through four miles of chaparral, and behold the river, 
 the city and the fort. It is now two o'clock, and the sunlight reveals the 
 devoted fortress. The cannonade from the city, from the battery yonder 
 in the woods, still pours its fury upon the brave three hundred. So, from 
 morning light, it has yelled its thunder, scattering its copper balls among 
 the heroic band, who have resolved to wait for Taylor, and never give up 
 the contest, while a pulse throbs. 
 
 From the shattered fort, still towers on high that staff, undulating with 
 its precious ensign the Banner of the Stars. 
 
 Amid the hail of copper and iron, the soldiers gather in the centre of 
 the fort, around that bomb proof, formed by pieces of timber, supported 
 on barrels and roofed with earth. In all that crowd of half-clad men, 
 begrimed with the traces of one hundred and sixty hours incessant battle, 
 there is not one eye unwet with tears. Captain Hawkins, that brave 
 man who replied to Arista's summons to surrender, with the words " I 
 do not understand Spanish !" is on his knees, gazing upon the last hour 
 9f a dying man. 
 
 In the recess of the bomb-proof, where the hot atmosphere is almost 
 choked into pestilence, behold a veteran soldier stretched on his back, his 
 head supported by a knapsack, while the stump of his amputated leg, 
 tells the story of his lingering agony. That heroic face, seamed by 
 wrinkles is very calm. For the torture of pain has vanished at the coming 
 on of the Death sleep. He rolls his eyes with a softened glance, from 
 face to face, and tells them all how good a thing it is to die in a brave 
 cause. Even in a foreign land, under a hot sun, with cannon balls fling 
 ing dust into your face. 
 
 Then, these men of iron, who since last Sabbath morn, have laughed 
 the fury of the enemy to scorn, and been merry with his rain of copper 
 E.nd iron, turn their sunburnt faces away. Some of them look upon the 
 ground. Some brush their eyelids with their bony hands. One grim old 
 war dog, seated on the ground, his rough face with its blunt features, worn 
 by the perils of sixty years, clenches his huge fists, and sobs like a baby. 
 For the veteran Brown is dying and gliding so softly away, that not a 
 twitch of the muscles disturbs the mild serenity of his face, not a groan 
 heaves from his chest, to tell of the passing of his soul. 
 
 " Boys," he said, slightly raising himself upon his bent arm, " Taylor 
 is coming." , 
 
 And he laid his head upon his arm, and closed his eyes, composing 
 himself for a peaceful sleep. Why does the breeze, warm with the fever 
 f battle, play with his grey hairs, and toss them about his brow ? Can 
 
94 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 it not fed, as these stout hearted soldiers feel, that the sleep which the 
 veteran sleeps, is called DEATH ? 
 
 Two hours passed away, and the dead man lay on his rude death-bed, 
 when a soldier, gazing to the north, bent his head to one side listened 
 for a moment and rent the air with a shout. Two hundred throats at 
 once swelled that shout into thnnder. 
 
 Boom boom boom ! 
 
 They heard it ; from the north it sent its voice, that cannon of Ridgely, 
 and to the tired soldier's ear, it seemed to say, " WE COME !" 
 
 Boom boom boom ! Clang clang clang ! Cannon and musquetry 
 speaking together, and saying to the Spartans of Fort Brown t; WE 
 COME !" 
 
 Then a silence like death, so terrible from the thunder which went 
 before it, a silence that lay upon the chaparral like a spell. 
 
 Hurrah! They are charging upon them now. Silence! Now cold 
 steel to cold steel, horse to horse, and man to man. Silence and suspense, 
 the silence so dread, the suspense so horrible. Long the soldiers listened, 
 quivering they gave to their ears every sound, when suddenly, from the 
 north, there came a noise like the trampling of nine thousand men, not so 
 loud as cannon, nor so shrill as musquetry but a subdued, half-hushed, 
 brooding murmur. It grew, it spread far and wide over the chaparral, 
 and it began to say, " ZACHARY TAYLOR COMES !" 
 
 To the Battlefield once more. 
 
 The tent of Arista rising proudly in the centre of this green space, with 
 the chaparral darkening around. Its gaudy curtains wave gaily in the 
 light, while on every side the banquet fires are blazing. The choice wines 
 stand buried in pails of ice, the goblets gleam along the festival table, set 
 in the deep shade behind the tent. But where are the menials charged 
 with the preparation of the feast ? 
 
 Where are the glittering throng of cavaliers, who this morning went forth 
 to battle ? Where the gloomy Ampudia, that terrible boiler of dead men's 
 heads, or Arista, the general-in-chief, hardened by the perils of battle and 
 tears of exile where is he ? 
 
 This magnificent tent, adorned with all the marks of luxury, standing 
 in the midst of the deserted chaparral, is your only answer. 
 
 Hark ! From yonder thicket the clamor of battle, and a band of Ameri 
 cans emerge from the prickly pear, and advance toward the silent tent. 
 While the roar of the fight yells on every side, you may note the appear 
 ance of the leader of the band ; a young man, whose well-proportioned 
 form, is clad in the blue and silver of the Fourth Infantry. His florid 
 face glows with enthusiasm, his eye sparkles with battle delight. 
 
 As he advances from the north, along this road, southward from the 
 tent, a solitary Lancer rides slowly along, examining with cool scrutiny, 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 95 
 
 the numbers and arms of the Americans. They fire he gallops away- 
 unharmed. Again returns, and again rides laughingly away from their 
 fire. A third time he comes back, and whirling along like an avalanche 
 of horses, men and spears, comes the glittering lancer array. 
 
 As they come, the Americans pour their fire into their faces, and two 
 dying men bite the dust. Then every form seeks the covert, and the 
 lancers come dashing on. Only one man it is their leader stands un 
 sheltered ; his manly chest a mark for each deadly lance. They come 
 charging on, a cloud of dust marks their career, their lances glittering 
 above it, a long and dazzling line. With a shout they charge : one man, 
 you see his uncovered brow glow in the sunlight, confronts their charge, 
 and takes its battle bolt upon his breast. Once you see his arm raised, 
 once he shouts, and then, falling on his face, is pinned by twenty lances 
 to the sod. 
 
 The lancers whirl like a cloud before the wind, away, and you see only 
 the deserted tent, the dead man, and the darkening chaparral. 
 
 So, on the field of Resaca de la Palma died the chivalric COCHRAXE 
 
 while far away, by the waters of the Susquehanna, where its islands 
 are most beautiful, its mountains most sublime, his young Wife watched 
 for his return with his face to the dust and his back to the sky, he yielded 
 up his breath, and in his blood they found him, the young hero of the 
 LAND OF PENX. 
 
 Look through yonder thicket, and see that face, distorted with alt the 
 agonies of despair ! 
 
 A warrior reins his horse alone in the shadows of the chaparral, near 
 Arista's tent. The white horse, the gorgeous battle array, the dark olive 
 cheek and the red mustache, all tell you his rank and his name. It is 
 Arista, listening to the carnage shouts of Resaca de la Palma. Leaning 
 his clasped hands on the pommel of his saddle, he bites his nether-lip 
 until the blood starts, and then dashes the cold dews from his brow. 
 
 It is not death he fears, no, the sharpest steel or deadliest ball were 
 welcome now as bridal kiss to him but it is the disgrace, the dishonor, 
 the loss of glory. The utter wreck and ruin of six thousand men, all 
 veterans and heroes, by sixteen hundred Americans, led on by a rough old 
 warrior, in a brown coat ! 
 
 Around 'that solitary Chieftain roars the contest, near and nearer, 
 Duncan's cannon shouting to Ridgely's, and May's sabre clattering a wild 
 hurrah to Walker's sword. Bigger and blacker, the clouds came gloom 
 ing over the waste, every nook and path of the chaparral became the scene 
 of a bloody contest, and riding across the ravine, Zachary Taylor beheld 
 his army in full chase after the retreating Mexicans, the dust rising be. 
 neath their feet, and the battle cloud rolling above their heads. 
 
 It was in this moment of his peril, that Arista hesitated, whether to ad- 
 
96 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Vance or fly. It was his first impulse, to fling himself, with his white 
 horse, upon the bayonets of the foe ; but a hope, a wild, miserable hope 
 burned in his eyes once more, and he suffered the gallant steed to take his 
 own path, into the mazes of the chaparral. 
 
 But think not that the Mexicans fled without fighting. No ! It is only 
 the part of a hired British libeller, to deny courage to a chivalric foe : let 
 no American be guilty of the baseness of such denial. The officers of the 
 General's staff were gone- some of them prisoners, some corses, some 
 fugitives Ampudia, look for him yonder, his head thrown forward, his 
 eyes rolling with fear, as he digs h^is spurs into the flanks of his flying steed. 
 Yet still, there were Mexican men, common soldiers, who faced the foe, 
 in this sad hour, and wrote their courage on the sod, with the last convul 
 sive movement of their stiffening hands. 
 
 There was an old man, who came rushing from the chaparral into an 
 open space, some thirty yards square, hedged in on' every side by that 
 wall of prickly pear. 
 
 His green uniform hanging about his broad chest in ribbands, his dark 
 beard and mustache silvered with the toil of sixty years, he tottered for 
 ward, while from the thicket crashed some twenty dragoons, in hot pur 
 suit, every arm wielding its flashing scimiter. 
 
 Why pursue this old man, who, fainting from many wounds, still totters 
 on, tracking his course with his blood ? 
 
 Around his right arm he bears the last memorial of the veteran band, 
 the Battalion of Tampico. It is their banner, embroidered by the hands 
 of beautiful women, and sanctified by the prayers of white-robed nuns. 
 He received it from the hands of a dying comrade, received it, as his warm 
 blood spouted over his face, and swore, never, while one throb of life re 
 mained, to yield it into American hands. 
 
 Where is the Tampico battalion now, that went forth so steadily to the 
 fight, not two hours ago ? Where are its bronzed faces, its iron forms ? 
 Some are in the ravine, their cold faces washed by the bloody waters of 
 the lagoon, some in the chaparral, splintered into fragments, some have 
 flung away their arms, and rushed bare-chested upon the foe, in the frenzy 
 of despair. 
 
 The Battalion is dead. This old war-dog, tottering on, with its banner 
 wound about his arm, alone remains of all its proud array. 
 
 Planting his right foot firmly in the centre of the glade all hope of 
 flight is vain he clutches his short sword with a grasp like death, and 
 glares, like a maddened bull, in the faces of his pursuers. 
 
 These dragoons, brave fellows, who have done noble work in to-day's 
 fight, and who always doff' their helmets when they see courage, even in 
 a foe, rein in their steeds with one impulse, at the sight. 
 
 One of their number dismounts, flings the rein on the horse's neck, and 
 sword in hand advances. You see his short yet robust form, manifesting 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 97 
 
 in the bared sinews of the right arm, an almost superhuman strength. His 
 blunt face, with heavy features, short, stiff hair, and keen grey eyes, 
 announces the tenacious courage of a bull-dog. 
 
 " Look yer, stranger," he exclaims" You 're faint with blood, and had 
 better yield the old man's won the day, and there haint no further use 
 for that flag" 
 
 His comrades, with their steeds recoiling on their haunches, and their 
 battle-worn faces bent forward, await the result of this scene, with deep 
 suspense. 
 
 But, look ! The stout old veteran is dying ; his eyes are half-closed ; 
 he totters to and fro, still with the Tampico banner wound about his arm. 
 
 The American dragoon, touched with pity, springs forward to catch 
 him as he falls, and at the same moment, feels the short sword of the old 
 man driven to theJiilt in his breast. 
 
 Then, with a wild yell, that veteran crashes into the thicket and is gone. 
 The dying dragoon breathes in gasps ; he clutches the earth by handfuls, 
 and rolling slowly on his face stiffens into clay. 
 
 You should have seen the expression of horror which sank like a sha 
 dow, upon every face. For a moment not a word was spoken. Only an 
 instant ago, that tottering old man, with his eye swimming as if by disso 
 lution, and that muscular dragoon, advancing with a look of rude pity, to 
 his aid. Now ! 
 
 There was a dead man on the sod. The place of the veteran was 
 vacant : you hear him yonder, crashing through the thicket. 
 
 It is in vain to attempt the mazes of that barrier of thorns on horseback. 
 A moment's hurried consultation is held ; a young dragoon springs from 
 his steed, and plunges into the chaparral. His comrades behold his tall 
 form, his swarthy face, with prominent features, shadowed by short curl 
 ing black hair, behold him for a moment only, and he is gone. 
 
 On, crashing through that wilderness of thorns, cutting his way with 
 his sword, or crawling on hands and knees, guided by the echo of the 
 old soldier's tread, he hurries, his heart palpitating with the fever of re 
 venge. Hark ! He nears his foe these footsteps sound heavy and sul 
 len the old man is fainting from loss of blood soon he will fall, and from 
 his dying clutch the victor will rend the Banner of the iron band. 
 
 At last they stand face to face. In a nook of the chaparral, where the 
 torrents, now dried up and vanished from the burnt soil, have formed -a 
 deep gully, the young Dragoon beholds the old soldier, leaning against the 
 bank of clay, the banner wound firmly around his right arm, with the 
 hand still clutching the fatal short sword. 
 
 It is a sad and pitiable sight. So weak with his wounds, so near his 
 death hour, his head sinking on one shoulder, his bent knees, bending 
 beneath his massive frame, he glares into the face of the Dragoon, with 
 those glassy eyes fired with deadly hatred. 
 
 12 
 
gg THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 The Banner was given to him by dying hands, and he will keep it in 
 his death hour ! 
 
 " Yield !" shouted the Dragoon, advancing with a firm tread, his sword 
 grasped by a vigorous arm, while his well-knit figure towered erect, and 
 the battle flush crimsoned his face from the chin to the curling dark hair. 
 
 The old man with a great effort raises himself, and with his sword 
 before his chest, his back against the bank, stands on his defence. 
 
 For a moment they regard one another silently, those glassy eyes, fading 
 into eternal darkness, glaring upon the fiery eyes of youth and vigor. The 
 Dragoon drops his sword 
 
 " You murdered my comrade aye, murdered him, as he sprang for'rad 
 to help you, but I cannot kill you. You'll die in a few minutes, and the 
 Banner will be mine !" 
 
 He silently contemplates his expiring foe. ^ 
 
 But the old soldier what means that long deep heaving of the blojody 
 chest ? That convulsive movement of the arms ? That swelling of the 
 veins in the throat I He is preparing all the strength within him, for a 
 desperate effort, yes, with a bound like a wounded panther, he darts upon 
 the young Dragoon, and pinions his throat with those iron fingers, with 
 the death-grip of a desperate man ! 
 
 To force the American back on his knees, to crush the sinews of his 
 throat, until his eyes started from their sockets, to press his own knees 
 on his chest, it was done like a flash. The American's stiffening fin 
 gers dropped his sword gurgling as in this death, agony, a thick and 
 choking groan, he sank back on the sod. His eyes started from their 
 sockets. His face was discolored by streaks of blue and red ; livid as 
 the visage of a poisoned man. 
 
 A moment longer, and that death grip will finish the career of the gal 
 lant Dragoon. Glaring with his dilating eye, into the victim's face, he 
 growls a hoarse oath, tightens his clutch, and 
 
 Did you see that form, leap into air, the face ghastly, the eyes rolling 
 in death, the chest heaving with a fiendish howl ? It is a horrible spec 
 tacle ! He stands for a moment, rends the flag from his arm, gazes mad 
 ly almost fondly upon it, as it quivers in his grasp, and falls upon it, 
 with his face, crushing its folds into the grass. 
 
 He rests upon the flag ; his face you cannot see, and yet on either side 
 of his head, you see a widening pool of blood, that clots the fine embroi 
 dering of the Banner, and paints with crimson the words BATALLON 
 DE TAMPICO. 
 
 The American Dragoon arose, with the livid mark upon his face, the 
 blood drops starting from his blood-shot eyes.and gazed with a look, wild 
 with terror upod the sight before him The dead Veteran, and his bloody 
 Banner. 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 99 
 
 Zachary Taylor, spurring forward his favorite grey, beheld the fury of 
 the battle roll along the narrow road the wall of the chaparral on either 
 side swelling its waves of blood toward the Rio Grande. 
 " I will be at Fort Brown to night, if I live !" 
 And he was going there ! 
 Would you behold his path ? 
 
 Down the narrow road, hedged in by prickly pear, paved with corses, 
 roaring with thunder, blazing with the lightning of carmon. Gaze there, 
 and see the Mexicans go down at every shot, by ranks, by platoons, by 
 columns. 
 
 It is no battle, but a hunt, a Massacre ! You have read of the Indians 
 firing a prairie, in a circle, and waiting patiently until the flame, roaring 
 toward the centre, hems the frightened deer, panthers and buffaloes into 
 a furnace of burning grass f Old Zachary has fired his prairie ; the circle 
 grows narrower every moment ; that circle formed by Ridgely's cannon, 
 by Duncan's battery, linked with the lines of Montgomery, grows nar-*' 
 rower every instant, and crushes and hurls and burns the Mexicans to 
 ward the centre of death, the Rio Grande. 
 
 And now, Walker and May at the head of their deaths-men, wave their 
 swords and seek the game, as it issues from the flames. The heart grows 
 sick of the blood. The chaparral seems a great heart of carnage, palpi 
 tating a death at every throb. 
 
 Volumes would not tell the horrors of that flight. Happy the poor 
 wretch who could creep into the chaparral, and bleed to death in dark 
 ness ! Woe to the wretch who pursued the road to Fort Brown ! The 
 sword of May severed his throat, or the hail of Ridgely crushed him 
 down, on the cannon of Duncan, thundered over his mangled corse. 
 
 Still in the midst of the scene, old Zachary spurred his grey steed, 
 while the bullets riddled his brown coat, he pointed toward the Fort. 
 
 The setting sun, struggling with the black and red clouds that choked 
 his beams, spread over the chaparral, a pale and livid light. 
 
 Boom, boom, boom ! At Fort Brown, that sound was heard, and 
 springing to the parapet, beside the flag staff, the soldiers beheld a strange, 
 a meaning sight. 
 
 From the chaparral while that terrible murmur grew louder in its 
 depths burst a solitary horseman, dressed in the gorgeous costume of a 
 Mexican officer, his brow bared, and his extended hand waving a sword 
 in mad circles above his head. On, on, to the river, he rushed, his horse 
 bleeding all the while ; on, and on, shouting in Spanish" It is lost ! The 
 Day to Mexico is lost !" 
 
 Hark ! That cheer how it went up from Fort Brown, and startled 
 Matamoras to its inmost home ! 
 
 For the flying soldier was AMPUDIA, the murderer of Sentmanat ; yes, 
 into the river he plunged his horse, looking back over his shoulder in mad 
 
!00 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 terror, as the people on the roofs and shore, heard his shout Lost ! All 
 -is lost ! 
 
 In Fort Brown, every soldier held his breath. For look ! From the 
 ^ northern chaparral, where the cloud darkens up against the sun, a mass 
 of panic-stricken fugitives rush by hundreds and by thousands, filling the 
 air with the cry of their terror. 
 
 They come, scattering their arms by the way. They come, trampling 
 over those who fall fainting in their path. They come, the cavalry 
 those gay lancers riding down, without remorse, their own infantry ; 
 they come, the chivalry of Mexico, transformed into a Mob, drunk with 
 terror and blood. 
 
 The whirlpool rushes to the river, as to the centre of its fury. By 
 two roads, it pours its frightened fugitives along ; one above and one 
 below the fort, one leading to the upper and one to the lower ferry. 
 These roads are black and bloody, with the living and the dead. 
 
 Pouring in one steady stream, flinging their clothes upon the road, they 
 dash from the chaparral toward the river, man and horse, maddened by 
 the same fear. The wounded too, placed in sacks, borne by mules, rudely 
 tossed to and fro, wring the air with incessant cries. 
 
 Now cheer again, brave defenders of Fort Brown ! Cheer once more, 
 and turn the blaze of the eighteen pounder toward the upper ferry. That 
 blaze carries twenty deaths with it ; in the ranks of the fugitives, twenty 
 men, sink howling on the road. 
 
 By the shore behold this scene. A crowd of panic-stricken soldiers, 
 have seized the raft ; with mad cries and shouts, they push it from the 
 shore, when like a whirlwind, a body of their own lancers rush upon 
 them, urging their horses through the waves, and planting their hoofs upon 
 the faces of their dismounted countrymen. For a moment, burdened with 
 human agony, a mass of faces and bodies, writhing beneath the trampling 
 horses, that raft quivers, rolls over the waves, agitated by its motion, and 
 then, like a rock from a heighth, goes crashing down. 
 
 As it sinks, you see that -solitary Priest, standing amid the crowd, in the 
 centre of the raft, his uplifted hand, holding into light, the Cross of God. 
 For a moment, it glitters, and then the raft is gone, a horrible yell rushes 
 into heaven, and where a moment ago, was a mass of human faces, lan 
 cers' flags and war-horse forms, now is only the boiling river, heaving with 
 the dying and the dead. 
 
 It was horrible to see them die, horrible to witness them clutching at 
 each other's throats, ere they sank below, horrible to behold the Women, 
 on the opposite bank, who tried to recognize a brother, or husband in that 
 whirlpool* of waves and blood. 
 
 Four days afterward, those bodies, festering in corruption, floated black 
 ened and hideous, upon the waters of the Rio Grande. Upon the root of 
 a tiee, which protruded from the river bank, left bare by the receding 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 101 
 
 wave, hung the corse of the Priest, his right hand clutching that hallowed 
 Cross. 
 
 While the scenes of death, took place on the river, the eighteen pounder 
 in the Fort, was hushed, and the heroic three hundred, crowding to the 
 parapet, gazed in silence, upon that strange, wild panorama, which was 
 stretched before their eyes. Brown lay cold in death, but Hawkins, lean 
 ing on his sword, his face manifesting strong emotion, looked to the north, 
 and looked to see old Taylor come. 
 
 Soon, from the chaparral, shone the American bayonets, flinging back 
 from their dazzling points the light of the setting sun, and then, from the 
 darkness of the thicket, a volume of blaze, a cloud of white smoke, rush 
 ing forth together, told that Ridgely and Duncan were near. 
 
 Along the roads those bayonets extended, pressing the fugitives to 
 death, while through their intervals the cannons moved on, shouting their 
 thunder ory, as from the wood to the river, they mowed the Mexicans 
 
 into heaps of mangled flesh. 
 
 
 
 It was then, amid this hurrying scene of slaughter, when the river bur 
 dened with corses, the town black on its roofs with affrighted thousands, 
 the separate roads strewed with dying and dead, the Fort crowded on its 
 ramparts with the Spartan band, glowed in all their strong contrasts with 
 the beams of the setting sun, it was then, as the American banner, which 
 had endured four thousand shots and still waved on, flung its belts of 
 scarlet and snow against the evening sky, that riding amid the battle 
 clouds toward the Fort, there came an old man, mounted on a grey steed, 
 his brown coat thrown back from his chest, and his bronzed face beaming 
 with a smile. 
 
 You should have heard the shout that went up from the Fort, as they 
 saw old Taylor come ! 
 
 Nine days ago, with two thousand men, he left the Fort the country 
 all around swarming with Mexicans by thousands marched to the relief 
 of Point Isabel ; and now, he comes back, having hewn his way through 
 the breasts and steel of two bloody battles ; he comes back, his brows 
 wreathed in laurels, and behold the sungleam of victory light with one 
 glow, the river, the fortress and the corse of the veteran Brown. 
 
 Beside that corse, beneath the evening sky, he stood, while around, 
 their deep silence unbroken by a word, grouped the heroes of the Fort. 
 The body of the veteran bleeding from the shattered leg, even in death, 
 his upturned face moulded in a look of ineffable calmness, so that his 
 white lips seemed to say, You have come at last ! The form of the war 
 rior, his body bent forward, his clasped hands resting on his sheathed 
 sword, as with downcast eyes, he surveyed that facf, now cold in death 
 forever. Such was the picture ; but what language can portray the emo 
 tions which quivered in the warrior's breast at this stiU hour, as gazing 
 
 
102 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 on the soldier's mangled body, the full consciousness of the glory he had 
 won, rushed like a torrent on his soul ? 
 
 The scenes of his life passed like a vision before him. The Child of 
 a Revolutionary lineage his father fought beside Washington in the 
 Christmas Festival at Trenton he stood once more, a mere boy of 
 Eighteen, in the presence of Jefferson, and received from his hands, his 
 Lieutenant's commission. 
 
 The scenes of deadly and bloody Indian wars on the prairies of the 
 north and among the everglades of Florida his long and laborious life, 
 long without fame, and laborious without glory, suddenly ripening into 
 fame and glory, on these fields of Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma, be 
 fore whose light the brightest names of age would bow their laurelled 
 heads all glided before him, like the historic panorama of some long past 
 age. Standing beside the corse of Brown, with the evidences of his 
 success around him, waving in the Banner above his head, and glaring 
 upon him from the cold face of the dead soldier, he still might scarce be 
 lieve himself, plain Zachary Taylor, at once the Victor and the Hero. 
 
 Chosen by Almighty God, in the strong maturity of his grey hairs, as 
 the Instrument of great events, called forth in his vigorous old age, to be 
 come the hero of glorious battles, can we doubt that in this moment of 
 silent thought, Zachary Taylor recognized with awe, that awful hand 
 which beckoned him onward, through the cloud of the Future, and felt 
 himself the Child of Destiny, the Champion of a People, the Man of an 
 Age? 
 
 Felt that in his hand was placed for deeds of high responsibility, the 
 SWORD OF WASHINGTON, and saw it flash over the battle-fields of a re 
 deemed Continent ! 
 
 0, Tricksters of Council and Cabinet, who, while you fill the nation 
 with your petty broils, and swindle adroitly into your own hands, the 
 Money of a People, still with pursed lips and expanded eyelids, talk with 
 righteous horror of ' a Military Chieftain? making that phrase portentous 
 as the bug-a-boo of an Idiot's dream, come here to the Rio Grande, in this 
 silent evening hour, and learn some wisdom from this heroic old man ! 
 
 Does God rule the world ? Does he sleep ? Do men arise and fall, 
 do wars go on, and lands grow rich in peace, without His awful and direct 
 interposition ? Deny this, and you stand before that God, guilty of a cold 
 blooded, practical atheism, compared to which, the Satanic sneer of Vol 
 taire is Love and Charity. Admit it, and you must answer another 
 question 
 
 Why was Zachary Taylor permitted to remain in comparative obscu 
 rity, for the space of thirty-eight years, and then elevated suddenly into 
 the Hero of Palo. Mto, Resaca de la Palma, Monterey and Buena Vista ? 
 
 Did Almighty God raise this man for nothing ? 
 
 Did he raise this rnan merely for a uniformed show, a glittering pageant. 
 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 103 
 
 a nine days wonder, and an hour's hurrah ? Gaze upon the plain old 
 man's brown coat, and unpretending manner, and have your answer ! 
 
 Or, did Almighty God, in the time of peril, when those gamblers in 
 fraud, those grey-beards in falsehood, termed politicians, have usurped 
 the control of the Nation, from the Ward House to the Capitol, and trans 
 formed the Capitol itself into one immense gambling saloon, where the 
 honor of the country and the safety of the people are played away every 
 winter, by pot-house demagogues in this time of peril, when the Power 
 of this great Union is centralized, not in a Royal Pageant, but in the tool 
 of a Convention, or the parasite of a Party when the statesmanship of the 
 country has become so thoroughly rotten, that any act of perjury, any 
 abortion of infamy, is deemed a virtue, if mantled by the word "polities' 1 
 did the same God, who guided Washington on to Peace, through seven 
 years of blood, raise this man, Zachary Taylor, in his old age, to win 
 glorious battles in a far-distant clime, as much by his moral power as by 
 his bayonets, so that covered with the confidence of every honest man in 
 the land, he might come to the Capitol, and with one sturdy blow, split 
 the forehead of the Demon, Faction, and crush its worshippers into the 
 kennel which gave them birth ?* 
 
 Zachary Taylor is a Military Chieftain ! Whose voice spoke there ? 
 Some superannuated trickster of politics, who has grown grey in the shack- 
 els of party, and without one noble deed to relieve the dotage of a 
 miserably spent life, snarls forth his envy, when a Man in reality, great, 
 crosses his little shadow. 
 
 A Military Chieftain ? In what does he differ from Arista, Ampudia, 
 and all the mere Military Chieftains of Mexico ? Why did he, with only 
 sixteen hundred, conquer nine thousand brave men, at Palo Alto and Re- 
 saca de la Palma, headed by Chieftains like these ? In a word, we have 
 the difference in a word, the reason of his conquest his chieftainship is 
 
 * Last winter, on the floor of the Senate, a grave Senator declared in his place, 
 that did the People know the rotteness of the government at Washington, the pesti 
 lence of the corruption, which infected its every department White House, Senate 
 and Representative Hall they would assemble, in mass, and precipitate the ' Presi 
 dent, Senate, Congressmen, heads of departments," ail together, into the Potomac.' 
 
 Xo one in the Senate dare give the Senator the lie. 
 
 The truly great men of the Nation, the Andrew Jackson's, and Henry Clay's have 
 never been, in the technical meaning of the phrase, party men. Their proudest 
 triumphs have been above all party. Jackson, a Democrat, when he would save the 
 Union, from Southern nullification, called to his and the Federal principle. Henry 
 Clay, a. high protective tariff advocate, when he would restore peace to a convulsed 
 Nation, also held his country, dearer than his party, for he urged and carried a Com 
 promise. Both these men, have been repeatedly betrayed by Faction. When Jack 
 son commenced his war in the Infamy of Chartered Despotism, his party friends fell 
 away by thousands. The People sustained him. When Clay, by the force of his 
 Genius, had uoheld nil brilliant career as a statesman for forty years, the party which 
 
104 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 centred, not in balls or bayonets, but in the hearts of his soldiers. The 
 Mexican, even as he plunged into the battle's front, had no confidence in 
 his leaders. While he poured forth his blood, they were flying from the 
 field. What soldier could fight, with a consciousness like this, paralyz 
 ing his arm ? But the Americans fought directly under the eye of 
 Zachary whatever might be their fate, he was there to share it and 
 therefore, sixteen hundred men hurled nine thousand before them, while 
 in their centre, rode that plain man, in a brown coat, with his spy-glass 
 and old grey horse ; his bronzed face lighted by his speaking battle eye, 
 shining its Jire into every heart. 
 
 Never since the days of Washington, has a Commander so thoroughly 
 possessed the hearts of his men. 
 
 Let us close this Battle Picture of Resaca de la Palma, with four 
 sketches, delineating these respective characters, the Trickster-Statesman ; 
 the Politician ; the Military Chieftain, and the General of the People. 
 
 Let us fancy for a moment, that these scenes, take place, at the same 
 hour, on the same day, within a circle of two thousand miles : 
 
 It is the Senate Hall of a great nation, crowded with solemn men, 
 Avhose faces are seen, by the same light which glows upon the portrait 
 of Washington. Amid that crowd of renowned man, a Senator arises, 
 distinguished by his dark complexion, his brilliant eye, and deep, ringing 
 voice. He has been sent hither by the people of a state, to speak for 
 them, with that picture of Washington before his face. He fulfils his 
 high responsibility in these words : 
 
 " This is a cruel, black, horrible, murderous war. Those soldiers 
 whom we have sent to a foreign land, are assassins and robbers. Were 
 I a Mexican, as I am an American, I would say to them, have you no 
 graves in your own country, that you come here to die ! Yes, I would 
 welcome them all, these robbers and assassins with bloody hands and a 
 hospitable grave." 
 
 claimed him, sacrificed him, without remorse, in a Harrisburg Convention. His 
 fame, at this time, comes not from the leaders of a party, but from the honest senti 
 ment of a People. 
 
 The people who are divided into two parties, are one in feeling : alike Democratic 
 to the core. There is no real difference between honest men of either party. They 
 hold the same opinions, modified by locality. The difference between them, is pre 
 cisely such, as would exist between any two bands of honest men, who might be 
 arrayed against each other, by hypocrites and robbers. In the North, among both 
 parties, in 1844, the Tariff sentiment prevailed, as in the South, among both parties, 
 the Free Trade doctrine was a common opinion. This cannot be denied And yet 
 the people, divided into these parties, were in North and South, arrayed against each 
 other, on the ground of "Principle." Principle, by the last political dictionary, 
 meaneth loaves, and fishes and places. To hear these pot-house heroes, within their 
 tavern breaths, reel to the pools, shouting" Principle !" is it not enough to make 
 the heart grow sick ? 
 
 To make the matter plain, let us take the last cases of political honesty, as mani- 
 
RESACA DE LA PALMA. 105 
 
 The Senator speaks his patriotic heart, in these words, and sitting 
 down, looks the portrait of Washington in the face. 
 
 This is a politician ; but only a fancy sketch, you will remember. 
 
 Gaze yonder through the glittering circles of the Havanna theatre, 
 where a man of mature manhood, attired in a green and gold uniform, 
 with the traces of battle manifested in his amputated limb, sits smiling 
 quietly, his pale melancholy face and high forehead, the object of a thou 
 sand eyes. That man is a Military Chieftain, who has carved his way 
 with sword, overturning tire governments of his native land, at pleasure, 
 with his iron-faced soldiers, and playing in his tumultuous life, these 
 varied parts President, Dictator, Exile. As he reclines in the crowded 
 theatre, pausing for a moment, ere he leaves the dance and song, for the 
 more intellectual amusement of the cock-pit, his native land is the scene 
 of bloody battles, his country's flag the object of accumulated dishonor. 
 
 And at the very moment, when rising in the Havanna theatre, he draws 
 a thousand eyes to his singularly impressive face, in the city of Washing 
 ton, by the lamp of a cabinet council, you behold a man of somewhat 
 portly form, his face dead-white in hue, his eyes clear azure, bending 
 over a table, in the act of writing an important paper. It is one of the 
 Rulers of the American People. The paper which he writes, it must be 
 confessed, is important in the last degree : for it is a Passport, which 
 worded as it may be, still bears but one meaning it commands the Cap 
 tains of American ships-of-war, to permit Santa Anna to enter Vera Cruz, 
 or in other words, solicits the Military Chieftain to leave the Havanna 
 theatre, return to his native land, and fight old Zachary Taylor at Buena 
 Vista. 
 
 And yet, the man in the city of Washington, with the dead white 
 face and porcelain blue eyes, is a Statesman. You will remember, this 
 is still but a fancy picture. 
 
 Or, should you wish to gaze upon another Statesman, not a military 
 
 fested in two papers, published in a well-known city, one Democratic, one Whig; 
 holy names, which are prostituted, every day, at the head of their columns. 
 
 The so-called Democratic paper, admired the course of Taylor, applauded the mo 
 ral power, the giant intellect, displayed in his battles, in the fatherly care of his sol 
 diers, in his magnanimous treatment of the foe, and yet, solemnly, and with the 
 unctuous tears of office, in its eyes, doubted his principles. 
 
 The Whig paper gravely called so edited by two or three political Jonahs, cast 
 up from the whales' bellies of as many factions, derided the war, and for the space of 
 one year, day after day, and columns after columns, called it a ' black, bloody, infer 
 nal butchery' in fact, preached that kind of treason, which would have hung the Edi 
 tors, in the days of a man called Washington, and left them on the gibbet, with the 
 label, TRAITOR on each brow This paper, after twelve months of elaborate sympa 
 thy with Santa Anna, came 0411, one fine morning, with the name of Taylor as its 
 Candidate for President ! The old man received the news of this nomination, just 
 after his battle of Buena Vista, and trampled it under foot, as Washington would 
 have trampled a nomination from the lips of Benedict Arnold. 
 
106 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 chieftain, for such personages are dreadful to contemplate, but a Statesman 
 of the highest order, gaze yonder, into the hallowed walls of Faneuil Hall, 
 and behold that muscularly formed man, tower above the heads of thou 
 sands, the light shining upon his massive forehead, as with his thunder- 
 tones, he utters words like these : 
 
 " What shall we say of this unconstitutional war with Mexico? Where 
 will we find words to express our withering disapprobation of its measures 
 and its men? Yet hold it is an American habit, not to count the horrors 
 of a war, the blood, the tears, the groans, the sighs, but the COST!" 
 
 With his thunder tones, in Faneuil Hall, he uttered this sentiment, and 
 spoke it boldly before the Portrait of John Hancock, and heard a thousand 
 voices answer him with deep hurrahs. He spoke it, in the birth-place of 
 the Revolution, where the Adamses had been, and in sight of the hill 
 where Warren fell, and did not feel that he was a blot upon that sacred 
 soil, a living scorn upon the dead, a Traitor for all his burning eyes and 
 snow-white hair. O, that stout John Adams could have started from his 
 grave, and- heard the pedlar's throats of Faneuil Hall shriek like a Puri 
 tan hallelujah, the word " COST !' 
 
 Yet this man is called a statesman, not military chieftain, ah, no ! But 
 as the pious folks of Puritan land have it, a Godlike statesman. 
 
 Still it is only a fancy picture. Remember that ! 
 
 And while the politician on the floor of the Senate, prepares for Ameri 
 can Soldiers, his bloody hands and hospitable grave, while Santa Anna 
 enjoys his game cocks in Havanna and the Statesman writes his passport 
 in Washington, while the Godlike Statesman in Faneuil Hall, proclaimed 
 to all the world, that it was an American habit, not to count the blood and 
 
 tears of a war, but the Cost here, beside the Rio Grande, with the 
 
 evening star shining upon his bronzed face, behold the object of all their 
 schemes, that plain old man, in the brown coat, covered with the blood 
 and laurels of two victories, which all America had feared, would have 
 been but Massacres to himself and his little band, here beside the dead 
 liody of his brother soldier, he stands, and murmurs 
 
 ' I SAID I WOULD REACH FORT BROWN IF I LIVED, AND I AM HERE 1" 
 
MONTEREY. 107 
 
 VI. MONTEREY. 
 
 THEY tell me that Monterey is beautiful ; that it lies among the snow- 
 white mountains, whose summits reach the clouds. 
 
 It sleeps beneath us now. 
 
 While the moon, parting from the white mountain tops, sails in the 
 serene upper air, we will stand among the trees of the Walnut Grove, 
 and behold the slumbering city. 
 
 These trees, beneath whose leaves we stand, speak of the ages that 
 are gone. So massive in their trunks, so wide-spreading in their branches, 
 so luxuriant in their foliage. The moonlight trembles through the quiver 
 ing leaves, and reveals the rich garniture of the soil. It blooms with 
 tropical fruits and flowers. Around the giant columns of Walnut, the 
 jessamine and the wild rose, the lily and the orange blossom, spread their 
 tapestry of rainbow dyes. The air is drowsy with excess of perfume. 
 And from the shadows, flash the mountain streams, singing the midnight 
 anthem, ere they plunge below. 
 
 It is the Grove of the Walnut Springs in which we stand ; a grand 
 Cathedral of Nature, whose pillars are Walnut trees, five hundred years 
 old, whose canopy is woven leaves and vines, whose baptismal font is 
 the pure mountain spring, whose incense is perfume, that intoxicates 
 every sense, and whose offerings are flowers, that bewilder the gaze, 
 with their fresh, their virgin beauty. 
 
 And from the grove, by the light of the moon, we gaze upon the city, 
 that Amazon Queen, who reclines so royally among her warrior moun 
 tains. 
 
 It is a city of singularly impressive features, that reposes yonder. To 
 the north, to the south, to the west, the mountains rise, girdled with tro 
 pical fruits and foliage, and mantled on their brows, with glittering snow. 
 On the east, green with cornfields, and beautiful with groves of orange 
 trees, spreads a level plain. 
 
 Those orange groves, seem to love the city of the Royal Mountain. 
 For they girdle her dark stone walls, with their white blossoms, and hang 
 their golden fruit above her battlemented roofs. From this elevated grove, 
 toward the south, around the sleeping city, winds the beautiful river of 
 San Juan, now hidden among pomegranate trees, now sending a silvery 
 branch into the town, again flashing on, beside its castled walls. 
 
 Below us, with its roofs laid bare to the moonlight, we behold each 
 tower and dome, of the mountain city. It is a place of narrow streets, 
 and one storied houses, with walls and floors of stone. Above each level 
 roof, rises a battlement, breast high ; the streets are crossed by huge piles 
 of masonry, and the whole town, presents the appearance of an immense 
 
108 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 fortress, linked together by bands of stone, adorned with gardens, and 
 gloomy with towers of rock and steel. 
 
 Far to the west, a huge steep, crowned with a mass of stone, varied 
 with cannon, casts its heavy shadow, a long beltof blackness over the 
 town. That is the Bishop's Palace. 
 
 Here, before us, east of the city, their outlines seen above the river, 
 and the groves of orange blossoms, these castleated mounds, rise clearly 
 in the air. Yonder, on the north, glooms the massive citadel. Thus 
 girdled by defences of stone, iron and steel, thus sheltered by its moun 
 tains of fruit and snow, the city of the Royal Mountain, may well seem 
 impregnable. 
 
 Yonder, toward the south, among its homes of stone, you behold an 
 open space ; the grand Plaza of Monterey. There rise the cathedral 
 towers, heaving above their peaks, and domes of stone, the golden cross 
 into the midnight sky. Look ! How it glitters above the town, smiling 
 back to heaven, the beams of the rising moon. 
 
 It is impregnable, this mountain city. No arms can take it; no 
 cannon blast its impenetrable walls. The Bishop's Palace on one side, 
 the three forts on the other, the citadel on the north, the river on the 
 east and south ; it is shut in by stone, by water, by iron and by flame. 
 
 And yet, not many months ago sit by me, while the moon shines over 
 the city, and I will tell you the story there came to this grove, an old 
 man, mounted on a grey charger, and clad in a plain brown coat. On 
 the mountains that frown toward the east, through the ravines, that darken 
 there, he came followed by six thousand men. He encamped in this 
 grove of walnut trees, and the arms of his soldiers shone gaily, from the 
 white waste of orange blossoms. He stood, where now, we stand, he 
 gazed first upon his men, his horses, his cannon, and then upon the city, 
 which though it smiles to us, in the light of the morn, gloomed in 
 his face, by the beams of day from every roof, and rock and tower 
 with one deadly frown. 
 
 The old man saw it crowded by nine thousand armed men. He saw 
 very roof transformed into a castle, formidable with its death array of 
 cannon and steel, the Cathedral, with its cross, and image of Jesus, con 
 verted into a magazine of gunpowder a silent volcano, that only wanted 
 the impulse of a single spark, to make it blaze and thunder. 
 
 And yet the old man, after his silent gaze, turned to his brother heroes, 
 among whom Butler and Twiggs, and Worth of the Waving Plume, 
 stood prominent, and said in his quiet way : 
 
 " The town is before us. We will take it." 
 
 Then every soldier in that army of six thousand men, took his com 
 rade by the hand and said : " If I fall, swear that you will bury my 
 corse /" 
 
 For every heart felt that the contest must be horrible and deadly. 
 
MONTEREY. 109 
 
 The heroes of the prairie, the Men of Palo Alto and Resaca De La 
 Palraa, were there. Mingled with these iron soldiers, you might see the 
 men of Mississippi and Louisianna, Maryland, Tennessee and Ohio, 
 Kentucky and Texas. The farms and the work-shops of the American 
 Union, had heard the cry, which shrieked from the twin-battle-fields of 
 Palo Alto, and Resaca De La Palma, heard it, and sent forth their beardless 
 boys, their grey haired men, to the rescue. The sugar and the cotton plan 
 tations of the south, the prairies of the north, the mountains of Pennsyl 
 vania, the blue-hills of Kentucky, that dark and bloody ground, the massa 
 cre fields of Texas, all sent their men to swell the ranks of the New Cru 
 sade. The same Banner that waved over Bunker Hill, and Saratoga and 
 Brandywine, from the Walnut Grove, flashed the light of its stars over 
 Monterey. 
 
 The fight began on the Twenty-First of September, 1847, and tracked 
 its bloody course, over the Twenty-Second, and did not cease its howl 
 of murder, when the sun went down, on the Twenty-Third. 
 
 You may be sure that it was horrible, this battle of street and square, 
 of roof and cliff, of mountain and gorge. It was a storm hurled from 
 the mouths of musquets, cannon and mortar, wrapping cliff and dome in 
 its dark pall, and flashing its lightning in the face of Sun, Moon, and 
 Stars, for three days. You may be sure, that the orange groves, mowed 
 down by the cannons blaze, showered their white blossoms over the 
 faces of the dead. That the San Juan, sparkling in the moon, like silver 
 now, then blushed crimson, as if in shame, for the horrible work that 
 was going on. That nothing but shots, groans, shouts, yells, the sharp 
 crack of the rifle, the deep boom of the cannon, was heard throughout 
 those three days of blood. That in the battle trenches, lay the dead men, 
 American and Mexican, their silent groups swelled every moment by new 
 corses, looking with glassy eyes into each other's faces. That many a 
 beautiful woman, nestling in her darkened home, was crushed in her white 
 bosom by the cannon ball, or splintered in the forehead, just above the 
 dark eyes, by the musquet shot. 
 
 And amid the fight, whether it blazed in volumes of flame, or rolled in 
 waves of smoke, you may be sure two objects were distinctly seen the 
 white plume of the chivalrous Worth, and the familiar brown coat of stout 
 Zachary Taylor. 
 
 It was on the morning of the Twenty-First, when the rising sun shone 
 over the groves of orange and pomegranate, the fields of corn, and the 
 girdle of rocks and waves, encircling the mountain city, that suddenly, 
 a mass of white smoke heaved upward from the ravines, yawning about 
 the Bishop's Palace, and rolling cloud on cloud, wrapt those towers in its 
 folds, and stretched like an immense shroud along the western sky. 
 
 Beneath that smoke, Worth and his Men were commencing the Battle 
 of Monterey, on the West of the town. 
 
HO THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 At the same moment, around these forts on the east, a cloud of smoke 
 arose, it swept away toward the citadel, and soon melted into the cloud 
 on the west. 
 
 Under its pall, Taylor and his men were advancing upon the town from 
 the north and east. Thus the city of the Royal Mountain, was girdled by 
 a pall of battle-smoke, and thus, from opposite sides of the town, Taylor 
 and Worth fought their ways of blood, toward each other, driving nine 
 thousand Mexicans, with AMPUDIA at their head, into a centre of death 
 and flame. 
 
 Night came and went and came again, and still the fight went on. One 
 by one, the three batteries on the east, fell before the arms of Taylor. 
 Over the impregnable heights of the Bishop's Palace, waved the Banner 
 of the Stars. The city saw not a glimpse of blue sky, for in the air hung 
 a canopy of battle-cloud, and over the roofs the gunpowder spread its pes 
 tilential mist. There was neither food, nor shelter anywhere. God pity 
 the women then, who, shuddering in cellars and burrowing in dark rooms, 
 clutched to their breasts the children of their love ! In the Cathedral no 
 prayer was spoken, no mass sung the deep anthem, or waved from censers 
 the snowy incense. The Image of Jesus was wrapt in the battle-cloud ; 
 that divine face, for once, seemed to frown. Mild Mother Mary, above 
 the altar, was clad in a robe of smoke, and her sad and tender face grew 
 livid, ghastly, with gleams of battle flame. 
 
 There was no rest for the sole of human foot, no slumber but the slum 
 ber of the bloody ditch, or dark ravine. None slept but the dead. 
 
 And still, from the west, the cannon of Worth hurled their message to 
 Taylor on the east, and evermore the cannon of Taylor thundered their 
 reply. Nearer grew those sounds % each other, and closer in the fiery 
 circle, Ampudia and his Mexicans were hemmed. Over the roofs, through 
 the battered houses, beyond their battered barricades, they were driven 
 by Worth and Taylor, until the battle gathered to one point, and above 
 the main plaza where the moon shines so calmly now, on Cathedral and 
 Cross, hung the accumulated cloud of three day's agony. 
 
 And to this grove of the Walnut Springs, where at this hour, the moon 
 breaks in tender light, on each massive tree and perfumed flower, the 
 battle mangled were brought to bleed and die. The sod, spreading so 
 thick with blossoms all around us, grew purple with a bath of blood. 
 Hearts, that had once quivered to the pressure of a woman's bosom, were 
 frozen in this grove, and eyes, that had looked tenderly into the eyes of 
 Wife, Mother, Child, grew glassy beneath the walnut leaves. 
 
 But amid all the horror of the fight, the Mountains yonder, like calm 
 Demons, impenetrable to the yell of slaughter, or the howl of agony, 
 lifted their snowy tops, and shone on, whether lighted by the sun, or 
 moon, or stars, or battle-flash. 
 
MONTEREY. Ill 
 
 Crouching in a darkened chamber, two Mexican girls flung their arras 
 about each other's necks, and buried their faces in their flowing hair. 
 Through the small window toward the west, half-covered with vines, a 
 few wandering gleams of sunlight shone. Ever and again, a red flash 
 bathed the room in crimson light. It was a spacious room, with stone 
 walls, hidden in purple hangings, and a marble floor, strewn with the 
 wrecks of books and harps and flowers. 
 
 In one corner stood a small couch, its ruffled pillows, yet bearing the 
 outlines of those two virgin forms. 
 
 From that couch they had darted suddenly, and with their half-naked 
 forms quivering with affright, flung themselves on the marble floor, near 
 the window, where a Cross glittered in its shadowy recess. 
 
 And now, as their white shoulders and uncovered feet glowed in the 
 feeble light, their faces were hidden on each other's breasts among their 
 luxuriant hair. 
 
 You may see their limbs quiver, you may see the scanty robe, which 
 but half-conceals each virgin form, move tremulously with each movement 
 of their bodies, but their faces you cannot see. 
 
 It is now near sunset, on this fearful Twenty-Third of September, 1846. 
 For three days, these girls have awaited the return of their father from the 
 battle. Three days ago, they saw him go forth on his grey war-horse, 
 an old but muscular man, whose olive cheek, seamed with wrinkles, and 
 dark hair mingled with the snowy flakes of age, were shadowed by plumes 
 of fiery crimson. They saw him, in his costume of national green, dash 
 from the door of their home toward the battle. By his side, their brother 
 rode ; a manly boy of nineteen, whose jet-black hair, gathered in thick 
 curls around his young forehead, while his sinewy arm waved his sword 
 in the morning air. 
 
 So gallantly, from their garden-encircled home of Monterey, they went 
 forth together, the father and son, their uniform flashing back the light, 
 from every star of gold, while the necks of their steeds proudly arched, 
 their plumes fluttering in the breeze, their figures quivering with the im 
 pulse of the fight all gave omen of a bloody battle and a certain triumph. 
 
 For three days the maidens had waited for them, but they came not. 
 For three days and nights, the roar of the ^ght s/welling afar, had startled 
 slumber from their eyes. But now that roar grew nearer ; it deepened 
 into thunder ; it spoke more plainly. Quivering in every^ierve, as they 
 knelt on the floor, they could distinctly hear the separate voices of the 
 battle now the rifle's shriek, now the musquet's peal, now the cannon's 
 thunder shout. 
 
 And the storm grew nearer their house ; it seemed to rage all around 
 them, for those terrible sounds never for one moment ceated, and the red 
 flash poured through the narrow window, in one incessant sheet of battle 
 lightning. 
 
U2 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Still the Father, the Brother came not ! 
 
 Hark ! That crash, which shakes the chamber, like an earthquake ! 
 The girls lift their faces, from among their flowing hair, and you may 
 read the volume of their contrasted loveliness. 
 
 This, with her warm, voluptuous bosom, and the rich brown cheek, 
 shadowed by the raven hair Ximena. The other, with the fair cheek, 
 and snowy breast, and large eyes, that remind you of the deep azure 
 of a starry midnight, the hair that floats, in curls of chesnut brown 
 Teresa. 
 
 Their beautiful tresses twining together, in mingled dyes of light and 
 shade, the full, luxuriant form of Ximena, contrasted with the more deli 
 cate figure of Teresa, those dark eyes, swimming in tears, the maidens 
 half-starting from their knees, presented a picture of touching loveli 
 ness. 
 
 Around them strewn, their torn books, broken harps and withered 
 flowers ; before them, smiling from its dark recess, that solitary 
 cross ! 
 
 Again that crash, again that red light streaming through the window i 
 With one bound the girls sprang to their feet, and gazed upon the door, 
 whose panels you may distinguish yonder, among the purple curtaining. 
 
 " They come !" shrieked Ximena, and gathered her Sister to her heart. 
 
 Deep shouts were heard, the tramp of armed men, resounding through 
 a narrow passage another crash ! The door gave way, and the red 
 battle light rushed into the place. The door gave way, and as it clanged 
 upon the floor, a dying man fell backward upon its panels, the broken 
 sword, firmly clutched in his hand, the blood, pouring in a stream from 
 the wound in his chest. 
 
 His throat bare, his dark hair sprinkled with silver, hanging damp and 
 clotted above his wrinkled brow, he glared upward with his glazing eyes 
 made an effort to rise and fell back, writhing in his death agony. 
 
 Above him, the foremost of a band, attired in blue, stood a slender, but 
 athletic form, his upraised arm, still waving its sword, red with the blood 
 of the prostrate enemy. His face, was very pale, but his hazel eye, 
 shone with the mad light of carnage. 
 
 At a glance, the girls behold the form of that dying man, the figure of 
 Murderer and a shriek, that made his blood grow chill, though it raged 
 with the battle fever filled the place. 
 
 The American, in the doorway, felt his nerveless arm drop by his side. 
 Even as the sword dripped its red tears upon the floor, he beheld those 
 girls, kneeling beside the dying man, and heard one word quiver from 
 their lips 
 
 " Father !" 
 
 It was in the Spanish tongue, but he read its meaning in their extended 
 
MONTEREY. 113 
 
 arms, in their faces, stamped with agony, in their bared bosoms, wildly 
 pressed against the bleeding chest of his foe. 
 
 They looked up into his face ; they raised their eyes to this young 
 pale brow, and spoke once more 
 
 " Our Father !" 
 
 The young American felt his fingers stiffen, heard his bloody sword 
 clatter on the floor. 
 
 " His pistol it was, that shot my comrade by my side, even as we came 
 charging up the Plaza, his " 
 
 He shrieked these words, driven to madness, by their accusing looks, 
 but he could say no more. For he too had a grey-haired father, he too, 
 among the hills of Pennsylvania, in the old farm house, at the end of 
 the lane, where mill-stream wind among the woods, had two sisters ! 
 That father blessed him when he left home for the wars, those sisters 
 pressed their warm kisses on his lips, as they gasped farewell ! 
 
 Now, upon the threshhold of the Mexican home he stood, the dying 
 father, writhing before his eyes, while his daughters, with their bared 
 bosoms, sought to staunch the flowing of the blood, which hissed, warm 
 and smoking from his heart. There, he stood, the Murderer, in presence 
 of his victim, with the eyes of those beautiful sisters upon his face ! 
 
 The sight was two much for him. 
 
 Waving his comrades back they were all young men, like him, unused 
 to scenes of blood, their veins fired for the first time, with the lust of car 
 nage he flung himself upon the floor, and with his hands, pressed over 
 the wound, madly endeavored to stop the blood, that glided through his 
 fingers, and dashed into his face. 
 
 But the dying old Mexican, with distorted features and glazing eyes, 
 muttered a curse with his livid lips, and feebly endeavored to withdraw 
 himself, from the touch of the American. 
 
 Those half-clad maidens, with frenzy in their eyes, tore their glossy 
 hair, and beat their breasts with their clenched hands, as they felt, that 
 there was no longer a hope for the old man, their father. 
 
 The American, on his knees, beside them, saw the unspeakable agony, 
 written on each face, and knew himself, a guilty and blood-stained man. 
 
 " He shot my comrade," the words came faintly from his lips " My 
 blood was up I pursued him we fought fought on over heaps of dead, 
 
 to the door and but I did not think of this ! To stab an old man, 
 
 on the threshhold of his home, in the presence of his children !" 
 
 Again he sank beside the dying man, but those lips, now changed to a 
 clayish blue, only moved to curse again. With extended arms, he fell 
 before the maidens, but their looks of horror, as they shrank from him 
 with outspread arms, gave no hope of forgiveness. 
 
 At last he rose, and standing among the curtains, near the doorway, 
 
 14 
 
H4 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 where the shadows were thickest, folded his arms and contemplated the 
 scene. 
 
 Here Ximena, chafing with her warm palms the chilled hands of her 
 father, her hair, streaming wildly over her shoulders, stained with the 
 warm blood of his heart ; there, Teresa, with the head of the dying man, 
 on her lap, her fingers pressed upon his clammy brow, her blue eyes weep 
 ing their tears like rain, on his glassy eye-balls. 
 
 " It cuts my heart like a dagger" the American forced the words be 
 tween his set teeth " I have a father too, away in Pennsylvania, and 
 sisters too, that resemble these girls." ' 
 
 He could bear it no longer. Scarce knowing what he did, only wish 
 ing to turn his eyes away from that sight, he plunged among the hangings, 
 and found himself at the foot of a narrow stairway. A moment had not 
 passed, when he emerged upon the flat roof, with its battlement of stone. 
 His cheek was pale as death before the battle he had suffered much with 
 fever and the emotions, fast crowding round his heart, gave an unnatural 
 gleam to this eye. 
 
 He approached the battlement, and started away. The scene beneath, 
 was at once horrible and sublime. That roof, commanded a free view of 
 the Plaza of the city and all the avenues leading to it. Again he ap 
 proached, and gazed upon the Last Fight of Monterey. 
 
 Imagine a space, two hundred yards square, walled in by houses, one 
 story high, frowning with battlements. This space is packed with one 
 dense mass of infuriated soldiers, half naked, their faces scarce distin 
 guishable beneath the stain of powder and blood. They shout, they yell, 
 they roll to and fro, like the waves of a whirlpool. Here you may dis 
 tinguish the American, there the Mexican uniform. 
 
 From every battlement, lined w,ith frenzied Mexicans, pours the blaze 
 of musquetry, hurling the death, alike on friend and foe. Beneath, bay 
 onet to bayonet, and knife to knife, over the pavement, slippery with blood, 
 the contest is maintained. As the ranks of the battling legions, move 
 aside, or part for a moment, you may behold, the cold faces of the dead, 
 amid their fiercest roar, you hear the deep piercing yell of the wounded. 
 
 Over this scene, glooms the Cathedral, its towers only half seen amid 
 the clouds of smoke which toss around them. 
 
 That cross glitters in the setting sun, but all below is dim, dark, bloody. 
 Just as you have seen, a mist hover above a summit, so that thick cloud, 
 glooms over the grand Plaza of Monterey, its edges tinted with sunset 
 gold, while all beside is dark. 
 
 And toward this Plaza, like separate streams of blood, rushing from 
 north and south and east and west, toward one great lake of carnage, the 
 three days battle rolls by every street and avenue, along these roofs, and 
 through yonder smoking ruins. 
 
 Yonder to the west, far over the heads of advancing Americans cast 
 
MONTEREY. 115 
 
 your gaze, among the whirling combatants, you sec the White Pliuae, wav 
 ing in the battle light. WORTH is there ! Like a cavalier of old he rides to 
 battle, his graceful and commanding figure, clad in full uniform, his head 
 placed proudly on his shoulders, his broad chest, thrown forward, as if in 
 defiance of the danger and the death, around him. 
 
 To the east, turn your eye ! Down, this avenue, where the cannon's 
 blaze their fire, into the faces of the recoiling Mexicans, where the clouds 
 now come down like Night, and now roll away, leaving the scene, to the 
 warm glow of the setting sun, down this lane of blood, amid the charging 
 squadrons, you behold a warrior, on a grey horse, with a brown coat, 
 thrown back from his broad chest, while a plain cap, surmounts his 
 bronzed face and flashing eyes. TAYLOR is there ! 
 
 They hear each other's shouts, the iMen of Worth and Taylor, charg 
 ing from east and west, toward the Grand Plaza, their cannon balls en 
 counter each other, in the ranks of the foe; crushing men and horses, 
 firm masonry and battlemented walls before them, they fight on, 
 toward the centre, where gleams the Cathedral cross over masses of 
 cloud ! 
 
 This was the scene, which the young American, sick of the battle, and 
 thinking of his dear Pennsylvanian home, beheld, but it was not all ! No 
 no ! 
 
 Between the rolling clouds, the sky smiled so calmly down upon him ; 
 beneath in the bloody Plaza, the dead looked so ghastly up in his face ! 
 Not twenty yards from the place where he stood, a dead woman lay, her 
 mangled breasts, clotted with blood, while her frozen features, knit so 
 darkly in the brow, and distorted along the lips, told how fierce the strug 
 gle in which she died. 
 
 0, it would have made your blood dance, to stand there, and see how, 
 wave on wave, the Americans rolled their flood of bayonets toward the 
 Plaza, how flash on flash, their cannon lighted up the battle, whirling 
 around the cathedral, how yell on yell, the stern hunters of the west, with 
 clenched bowie knives, intheir brawny arms, came rushing on, to the last 
 act of the three day's drama of blood ! 
 
 At last, as if the day light was sick of the scene, the night fell a star 
 less, moonless night and in the darkness, the fight went horribly forward. 
 
 Then, through the pall that hung above the Cathedral, a mass of fire, 
 came blazing on, like the bloody moon in the Book of Revelations, blazing 
 on, with its fiery mane, flung far along the sky. 
 
 It comes from the mortar of Worth, and hisses down, among the Mex 
 icans, in front of the Cathedral. Old Zachary, gazing from the east, sees 
 that bomb, as it flashes on its meteor way, and knows that the end of the 
 battle is near. 
 
 Weary of the darkness and the blood, the young American tottered, 
 
116 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 from the battlement and down the stairway, into the chamber, where he 
 had left the sisters and their dying father. 
 
 A darkness, so dense, that it seemed to press upon the eyeballs, lay upon 
 the place. 
 
 The American soldier, stood among the purple curtains, listening in awe 
 for the faintest sound. 
 
 It was still terribly still. To the excited fancy of the battle-worn 
 Volunteer, it seemed a death vault, gloomy with the darkness of ages. 
 The very atmosphere seemed thick with Death. 
 
 He advanced a single step and then, even as he could distinctly hear 
 the beatings of his heart he spread forth his arms, sank on his knees, 
 and felt his way, through that darkened chamber. 
 
 His extended hands touched the cold face of the dead. There was 
 something so loathsome, in that clammy pressure, which left his fingers, 
 wet with clotted blood, that he started back, and remained for a moment, 
 motionless as the dead, as if rooted to the stone, on which he knelt. 
 
 Then, dashing forward with trembling hands, 1 he felt the cold face 
 again, and another, and yet one more clammy brow. He was alone in 
 that room, with the dead. Three corses lay on the stone floor, beside the 
 kneeling man. 
 
 This was the work of War ! War on the battle field, where the yell 
 of the dying, rings its defiance to the charging legions, wears on its blood 
 iest plume, some gleam of chivalry, but War in the Home, scattering its 
 corses, beside the holiest altars of life, and mingling the household gods, 
 with bleeding hearts and shattered skulls this, indeed, is a fearful thing. 
 
 As the American, sank back, shuddering and cold for he, too had a 
 father, he too, had sisters a glare like lightning, illumined the chamber, 
 laying bare, every nook and crevice, and tinting every object, with its 
 red and murderous light. In a moment it died away, but that moment of 
 sudden light, revealed this battle picture, to the eyes of the American 
 soldier : 
 
 The Father, dead, upon the prostrate door, his distorted features, scowl 
 ing curses, even as he lay, with his hands, clenched over his mangled breast. 
 By his side, two forms, their arms about each other's necks, their lips 
 close together, their young faces, even in that battle light, wearing a smile, 
 serene, as a cloudless heaven. It was the Brother and his Sister, sleep 
 ing their last sleep. One bullet, had pierced their skulls through the tem 
 ple she, with her glassy blue eyes and brown hair, lay with her cheek 
 to his, as the brother's lip, darkened by a slight mustache, was curved in 
 a joyous smile. 
 
 So, by their dead father, the dead children lay, crushed into eternal 
 silence, even as they had embraced each other, over his lifeless body. 
 
 It was evident that the young Mexican, came home from the fight, with 
 out a wound, and died in the act of consoling his fatherless sisters. 
 
MONTEREY. 117 
 
 But Xiraena where is she ? 
 
 Look, beside the bodies of the dead, and tremble, as you behold that 
 kneeling woman, gazing fixedly, upon the three corses, her eyes dilating, 
 until the white circle, is seen distinctly, around each burning pupil, while 
 her death-like face and uncovered bosom, are darkly relieved by the vol 
 ume of her luxuriant hair. 
 
 Was she dead ? 
 
 A convulsive quivering of the lip, alone bore witness, to the miserable 
 life, that still dwelt, in her maddened brain, a slight almost imperceptable 
 heaving of her white bosom told that her torn heart, still throbbed on. 
 
 For a moment the American saw this picture only one of the thou 
 sand horrible sights, which the light of battle, revealed in the Homes of 
 Monterey and the darkness, fell like a pall, upon the living and the dead. 
 
 It was on the Twenty -Fourth of September, when the battle clouds had 
 rolled away, and the setting sun, shone over the wreck of the devastated 
 city, thai AMPUDIA, surrendered into the hands of the old man in the 
 brown coat, his sword, and saw the Banner of the Stars, float into heaven, 
 from every dome and peak of the city. 
 
 In a town, that resembled one immense castle, hemmed in by fortified 
 mountains, and defended by forty-two pieces of cannon, with at least nine 
 thousand, brave men, under his command, he had been conquered by this 
 plain warrior, on the old grey horse, who had only six thousand men, 
 one mortar, two howitzers and four light field batteries. 
 History does not tell of many deeds like that! 
 
 Well might the old man gaze proudly round him, as he felt the sword 
 of AMPUDIA in his grasp ! For encircled by his own gallant officers 
 Worth of the Waving Plume was foremost there he saw the mountains, 
 with their white tops, glittering in the setting sun. He saw the Cathe 
 dral Cross, shining like a point of flame, as the Banner of the Stars, floated 
 around its dome. The orange groves, whose white blossoms, could not 
 conceal the dead, the River of San Juan, red with blood, the gloomy 
 Bishop's Palace, frowning under the victorious flag, the city, littered with 
 corses, he saw it all, that scene, where he had fought and won ! 
 
 Gaze upon the old man, as he stands triumphant, among the wrecks of 
 Monterey, the glow of the setting sun, upon his bronzed face, the sword 
 of Ampudia in his hand. His Army his People, not his Slaves are 
 there, with their tried bayonets, shining on every side. There are taller 
 warriors, who wear gayer uniforms, and go to the fight, in more elegant 
 costume, but this familiar man, in that unadorned attire, wears his battle 
 jewels, in the hearts of six thousand men. 
 
 And as he stands before us, the object of ten thousand eyes, yonder, 
 far away, in the City of Washington, the pismires of Faction, are already 
 busy with the Mound of his Fame. That Mound, built of the trophies 
 
118 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 of Palo Alto, Resaca De La Palma, Monterey, and cemented with the 
 blood of at least one thousand heroes. 
 
 Toil on, heroic Insects of the Cabinet and Council ! For work like 
 this, you were born ; it is your destiny, to gnaw holes in the drapery 
 of greatness, and burrow hiding places, for your mighty insignificance, 
 beneath the Monument of Genius. Toil on ! In the olden times, Pis 
 mires, as brave as you, although not born in the miasmatic air of cau 
 cus and convention swarmed over the drapery of a man, called Wash 
 ington, and went terribly to work, beneath the granite mountain of his 
 fame. 
 
 Where are they now ? Where will you be, ten years hence ? 
 
 Toil on, heroic Insects, of the Cabinet and Council ! But be very 
 careful how you annoy heroes like Washington or Taylor a single flutter 
 of their drapery will scatter you ; a solitary pebble, falling from the Monu- 
 . ment of their fame, crush you, into dust. 
 
 These Politicians, who scheme in dark holes, while brave, men, do 
 heroic deeds, in the face of day, are interesting personages. 
 
 Behold them, in the Continental Congress, lay their plans and weave 
 their plots, against one WASHINGTON, now battling hunger, cold and pesti 
 lence among the hills of Valley Forge ! Yet this same WASHINGTON, 
 with the ant-hills of party reared all about him, to block his way and pre 
 cipitate him into the dust, comes forth serenely from Valley Forge, and 
 fights the BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 
 
 Behold them, after the Battle of Monterey, sever old ZACHARY TAYLOR 
 from his tried veterans, leave himSat the City of his Conquest, with only 
 six hundred men, which at last are swelled by new recruits, into four 
 thousand. Immoftal Insects ! What matter if the old man and his four 
 thousand are massacred ? 
 
 The whole Union palpitates with quivering anxiety for the old man and 
 his soldiers. Superseded in his command, stripped of his veterans, he is 
 left among the mountains, with only four thousand, while Santa Anna 
 seeks for him, with twenty thousand men, eager for the fight, and confi 
 dent of victory. 
 
 Who cares for old Taylor ? Let him retreat ; he has won glory enough ; 
 we Insects of Politics are afraid of his fame. Let him retreat or die. 
 
 And, even as the Insects talk thus, there came a Rumor that the old 
 man has discovered a path through the very dangers which threaten him, 
 a Beautiful Prospect through the very clouds which frown upon his head, 
 or to speak it in Spanish, a BUENA VISTA. 
 
 Toil on heroic Pismires of the cabinet and council ! 
 
 Still we stand in the shadows of the Walnut Grove, gazing by the light 
 of the moon, on slumbering Monterey. To see it sleep so calmly, in the 
 embrace of its warrior mountains, who would dream that it had ever been 
 
MONTEREY. 119 
 
 the scene of a three day's battle ? Gloomily above the town, the Bishop's 
 Palace towers, but its guns are voiceless now. Beautifully throngh the 
 night, the silvery San Juan gleams, but its waves no longer blush with 
 blood. The orange groves are there, with their golden fruit mantled in 
 snowy blossoms ; there, the cornfields waving their long emerald leaves 
 and tossing their silver tassels on the breeze, there the homes of stone, 
 with battlemented roofs, framed in gardens of flowers Beautiful Monterey ! 
 From the Cathedral tower, the Cross glitters through the night, emblem 
 of that Faith though clouded by priests and creeds which says forever, 
 " All men are alike the children of God." Over the Bishop's Palace 
 waves the Banner of the Stars, symbol of that Democratic truth, which 
 never for a moment ceases to speak, " This Continent is the Homestead 
 of free and honest men. Kings have no business here. Hasten to possess 
 it, Children of Washington !" 
 
 While the moon rises over Monterey, let me take you to the fireside 
 of yonder distant Home, in the land of Penn, among the mountains. 
 
 There is snow upon the ground, not only on the summit of the hill, 
 but in the deep gorges, and chasm-like ravines. Over the mantle of snow, 
 a ray of light quivers like a flaming arrow. It comes from yonder win 
 dow ; you see it, with its deep frame sunken in the thick walls of the old 
 farm-house. With leafless trees around it, that pile of dark stone, with 
 steep roof and many chimneys, breaks on your eye. The barn is near, 
 one of those massive structures, which speak of glorious harvests, and 
 shame the Slave House of the Factory into nothingness. 
 
 By the light of the fireside, which sends its flaming arrow through the 
 window, into the dark night like a ray from heaven, blessing a dark 
 world behold this picture of Christinas Night. 
 
 A spacious room, its floor and ceiling white as snow, and a wide hearth, 
 smoking and blazing with huge hickory logs. Above the hearth, a Rifle 
 hangs, which blazed in the Revolution at Germantown. Altogether, this 
 hall of the old farm-house, with its ancient furniture, its heavy rafters, and 
 joyous hearth, appeals to your heart : it is such a picture of Home. 
 
 Near the fire, on one of those oaken arm-chairs, sits an old man, with a 
 rosy-cheeked damsel on either side. They clasp his hands and smooth 
 the white hairs aside from his wrinkled brow, their fresh young faces 
 contrasting with his aged visage but the old man, with his grey eyes 
 fixed on the fire coals, bends his head and does not breathe a word. 
 
 It is the Christmas Night, and the Christmas Fire lights his face, but 
 there is one absent from its glow. He is thinking of the absent one, 
 picturing among the fire-coals, the image of his manly form, and repeating 
 to himself, the last words which he said, ere he left his home : 
 
 " Father, I will come back covered with glory. I will bring you a 
 trophy from the fields of Mexico ?" 
 
THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Now, it may be, he lies writhing with battle wounds or dying in the 
 slow agonies of the tropical fever. 
 
 The daughters read the sorrow written in the aged lineaments of their 
 father, and cast their tearful eyes upon the Christmas Fire. Mary, with 
 the soft brown hair, and bosom that swells beneath its 'kerchief covering, 
 dreams a half-waking dream of that golden and bloody land called Mexico, 
 and sees her brother toiling through the wastes of chaparral. Anna, with 
 hair golden as the beams of the setting sun, and a pale cheek, tinted with 
 a solitary rose-bud, also dreams, but in her vision beholds her brother's 
 brow, bathed with the red flush of victory. 
 
 And so they dream on, the father and his two mountain flowers, while 
 the dismal wind, howling through the deep ravines, only serves to render 
 more dear, more holy, the light, the blessing of that Christmas Fire. 
 
 At last a step is heard ; through the opened door, a gust of wind and 
 sleet rushes toward the fire. With one bound, the old man and his 
 daughters start to their feet. 
 
 In the doorway, they behold a tall, slender form attired in a plain blue 
 overcoat ; they see that pale face, lighted by the eyes that flash with vivid 
 light, they know those curls of chesnut brown, clustering beneath the 
 military cap, around the white forehead. 
 
 " My Son !" and the old man spreads forth his arms. 
 
 " Brother !" the Sisters are clinging round his neck. 
 
 Wasted by the deadly fever, the young Soldier bore in his pale cheek 
 and scarred brow, the stern testimonials of Monterey. He stood in the 
 centre of the group, his heart too full for words, gazing now upon his 
 white-haired father, now into the faces of those blooming sisters. It was 
 not very singular, but still the door remained open, and the wind and sleet 
 still rushed upon the Christmas Fire. 
 
 " You've come back, Harry," the Father surveyed his son with a look 
 of pride " You've seen hard fightin' I don't doubt ! A terrible scrimmage, 
 that of Monterey ! Come sit by the fire ; the girls will get you some 
 thing to eat. An' as you eat, tell us all about it what do you think of 
 the old man, Zachary Taylor ?" 
 
 At that name the young soldier uncovered his head; the tears' started 
 to his eyes. 
 
 " He is the Father, the Brother of his soldiers, as much as their Gene 
 ral !" he said, with deep emotion. So I have seen, time and again, the 
 heads of returned soldiers uncover at the name of Taylor, while the tears 
 in their eyes, the tremor in their voices, told how deeply in their heart 
 the memory of the old man's kindness had taken root and flourished. 
 
 "But come," said the Father "The night is bitter cold; close the 
 door and sit near the fire " 
 
 The Soldier did not move toward the fire, but stayed his father's hands 
 as they were extended to close the door. 
 
MONTEREY. 121 
 
 " When I left for Mexico, I told you I would bring back with me a 
 Trophy of the War. That Trophy is here !" 
 
 Flinging the door yet wider open, he led the Trophy forward to the 
 light. Behold it ! A young, a beautiful girl, whose voluptuous outline 
 of form, is not altogether hidden in her cumbrous dress of furs, whose 
 clear olive cheek, jet black hair and dazzling eyes, glow in the light, as 
 they are framed in the close-fitting hood. 
 
 The snow was upon her dress, and melted in pearl drops in her hair. 
 She stood gazing around the place with a half-frightened glance ; then 
 raising her large eyes to her Husband's face, she came tremulously for 
 ward and knelt at the old man's feet and kissed his hand. With one im 
 pulse, the Sisters flung themselves beside her, and kissed the snow drops 
 from her raven hair. 
 
 " It's a long story, father " gasped the Soldier, in a voice choked by 
 emotion "But I saw her father, her sister, her brother together dead 
 upon the floor of their home, at Monterey. She was without a friend 
 and I had killed " 
 
 He abruptly paused, and turned his face away. As if his soul was in 
 his words, he gasped again 
 
 " I can't tell it now father ! But there she is, a true woman, who has 
 nursed me in sickness, and followed me from her land of orange blossoms 
 and flowers, into this land of winter and snow. She is my wife ! Your 
 child, father ! Your sister, my sisters ! Be very kind to her, for she ha* 
 suffered much, and deserves all the love in your hearts ! True, she 
 does n't understand English, but " 
 
 There was a language which she understood ! It spoke from her large 
 beautiful eyes, it heaved with the pulsations of her young bosom, it 
 wreathed in her red, warm lips, and shone in every blush of her glowing 
 countenance. 
 
 As though she had been a gift, sent to them from Paradise, the old man 
 and his daughters took that warm southern flower to their hearts, and from 
 that moment she grew there ! 
 
 Beautiful Ximena ! Shaking the glittering snow drops from her hair, as 
 it fell in dark masses from her raised hood, she advanced toward the 
 Christmas Fire, and its warm glow bathed her cheeks as with a blessing. 
 The old man looked smilingly into her face. On her right stood Mary, 
 taking her silently by the hand, on the left her other sister, Anna, thread 
 ing her jet-black hair with her fingers. 
 
 Somewhat in the rear, stood the pale Soldier, his arms folded on his 
 breast, his head downcast, his eyes flashing with deep emotion as they 
 rested on his wife. That beautiful Trophy, from the battle-rent walls 
 of Monterey. 
 
 15 
 
THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 VII. BUENA VISTA. 
 
 A MOTHER, with her mild blue eyes shining with a joy too deep for 
 words, was gazing upon the face of her new-born child. Through the 
 curtained windows of her Virginian home, shone the clear calm light of 
 the setting sun. A mass of golden beams fell like a glory upon her down 
 cast head, and baptized with warm radiance, the face of her slumbering 
 babe, In that darkened room, crowded with antique furniture, the bed- 
 curtains crimsoned by the glow of the winter fire, you might distinguish 
 through the twilight gloom which filled the place, those two faces, one 
 eloquent with a Mother's love, the other calm as a cloudless sunset, and 
 fresh from the hands of God. 
 
 The name of that new-born babe, slumbering so like a dreaming Angel, 
 beneath its Mother's gaze, was GEORGE WASHINGTON. 
 
 The winter day, on which the Mother pressed her new-born child to 
 her bosom, was the TWENTY-SECOND or FEBRUARY, 1732. 
 
 Time passed on, and that child's name became a holy word in the 
 hearts of millions : the day of his birth a holy day, celebrated with solemn 
 prayers, with glad hosannahs, in all the homes of a redeemed People. 
 
 But there came a day, when it was celebrated with offerings of blood. 
 When the cannon, crushing hundreds with its thunderbolt, sung the an 
 them to its praise, and the white lips of dying men dying afar from 
 country and home, in the depths of bloody ravines gasped with the last 
 impulse of life, these holy words The twenty-second of February 
 Washington. 
 
 It was on the Twenty-Second of February, 1847, just one hundred and 
 fifteen years from the day when the Mother gazed upon her new-born 
 child, that the same sun which had baptized their faces with tender light, 
 shone over a far different scene. 
 
 It was sunset among the mountains of Mexico. 
 
 Wild and rugged mountains were those, which rose against the clear 
 winter sky, terrible ravines yawned in the light, dreary and inhospitable 
 wastes wearied the eye, with their desert loneliness. It looked that 
 desolate view like the Chaos of a former world. 
 
 Through these colossal steeps, hideous with piles of rock, tossed into 
 the sky in every fantastic variety of form, wound a narrow defile. 
 
 It was the road from fiuena Vista a hacienda, or mansion yonder on 
 those northern hills, to Agua Nueva, some miles to the South. 
 
 To the left of this defile, the valley of cliffs is broken by ridges, stretch 
 ing away, peak on peak, until they walled in by the colossal mountain, in 
 the east. On the right of the defile, deep gullies yawn in the light, their 
 
BUENA VISTA. 123 
 
 almost perpendicular sides rough with rocks, glowing redly in the light 
 of the winter sun. 
 
 And on those ridges, stretching away toward the eastern mountain 
 each ridge separated from the other, by a hideous ravine and above those 
 gullies, breaking the valley, into every chaotic shape, to ihe right of the 
 defile, arrayed in battle order, you behold an army of four thousand 
 men. 
 
 Their arms glitter in the light, with the dark mountain waste all around 
 them. And between their regiments and companies, the ravines darken ; 
 among their ranks, huge granite rocks arise ; they are extended, at inter 
 vals to the right and to the left of the defile, masses of men, horses, can- 
 iion and steel, broken by columns of shadow. 
 
 In their midst you see him yonder, on the ridge that towers directly 
 to the left of the defile sits an old man on his grey steed, his right leg 
 carelessly crossed over the pommel of his saddle, while his plain brown 
 coat, and unpretending military cap, are distinctly revealed in the light of 
 the setting sun. 
 
 His bronzed face, warms with a deep glow, as his grey eyes traverse 
 that wilderness of Mountains to the south. 
 
 The foe is there ; Waterloo never beheld, gathered in one view, a more 
 beautiful or terrible array. 
 
 As far as eye can see, the wilderness is one dense mass of men and 
 horses, with cannon glooming in the intervals of their firm ranks, and 
 steel blazing over their heads. \ 
 
 The setting sun lights up that quivering mass of steel, with a red glow. 
 You see it blazing everywhere. Yonder, up the mountain side, it shines, 
 circle of steel, piled on glittering circle, until that mass of rugged rock, 
 flames like an immense altar, lighted for some Demon Festival. From 
 the depths of the ravine, those glittering points, burst into the sunset, and 
 far down the valley of ridges and gullies, rank on rank, column on 
 column, regiment on regiment, that dense and formidable array seems to 
 grow larger, blacker, brighter, as it melts into twilight distance. Twenty 
 thousand men are there, upon the mountains, and in the ravines, arrayed 
 in battle order. 
 
 It looks like the army of a Persian despot, so gaily flutters its innu 
 merable red flags, from their flag-staffs of sharpened steel, so far, ao wide 
 it grows into space, so triumphantly it looks down, upon the little army, 
 arrayed upon these northern ridges. 
 
 Yonder, on that solitary ridge, towering some hundred yards to the left 
 of the defile one long wave of bayonets tossing tremulously beneath 
 hi m behold the soul of this immense mass. In the centre of a circle, 
 formed by the gorgeous costumes of his officers, behold, mounted on a 
 dark charger, a man, whose breast, blazing with stars and orders, cannot 
 divert your eye, from the melancholy grandeur of his face. His head is 
 
124 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 uncovered. His strongly defined profile, is marked upon the sunset sky. 
 There is intellect in every line of his bold forehead ; his mouth, wears 
 an expression of almost painful melancholy, his dark eye, shines with 
 deep and steady light. 
 
 As his olive cheek, glows in the sunset, while his eye roves over the 
 legions of his twenty thousand men, can you call to mind his past life ? 
 By turns, President, Dictator, Exile, for twenty years and more, the great 
 impulse, of his country's destiny ; now lording in a royal state, in his 
 Palace, reared upon the very spot, where stood, Montezuma's luxurious 
 home ; now looking with tiger-like ferocity upon the corses of slaugh 
 tered Alamo ; again a miserable outcast, resorting to opium, for oblivion 
 of his defeat, by a few hundred Texan hunters behold the Man of 
 Mexico, covered as he is with stars, and bearing the marks of battle, in 
 his maimed limb Antonio Lopez SANTA ANNA. 
 
 But a few months ago, sitting in the Havanna theatre, he smiled care 
 lessly at the dance and song, and with his young wife by his side, did not 
 seem to think, that among the nations of the earth, there was a land, 
 called MEXICO. 
 
 Now upon these wintry mountains, some thousand feet above the 
 sea with twenty thousand men, one irresistable mass of horse and foot, 
 he proudly surveys plain Zachary Taylor, and his four thousand volun 
 teers. 
 
 What does it mean, this terrible, this sublime spectacle ? 
 
 The same power which brought Santa Anna from his place of exile in 
 Havanna, stripped Zachary Taylor of his veterans after the three day's 
 fight of Monterey, and left him, to retreat or die. 
 
 Let us behold the array of the great old man. 
 
 Yonder, above the defile, frowns Captain Washington's battery. 
 WASHINGTON ? Yes, it is a glorious omen ! On the 22nd of February, 
 the Narrte and the Blood of the Continental General, are here ! The 
 crests of the ridges on the left and to the rear, are occupied by one com 
 pany and three regiments. There you may see the First and Second 
 Regiments of Illinois, with their commanders, Harden and Bissel ; a com 
 pany of Texans under Captain Connor ; the Second Regiment of Ken 
 tucky, headed by M'Kee. All volunteers, commanded by volunteers. 
 All citizen soldiers, summoned from their fire-sides, by the war-cry of 
 Zachary Taylor. And amid that crowd of gallant men you distinguish one 
 manly form, and chivalric face, shown distinctly in the level sunlight. 
 The blood of a great man throbs in that soldier's veins ; his name is 
 Henry Clay. 
 
 On the extreme left, beneath the shadow of the mountain, behold the 
 mounted men of Arkansas, with their leader, Colonel Yell, and the caval- 
 
BUENA VISTA. 12 5 
 
 ry of Kentucky, with their commander Humphrey Marshall. Two regi 
 ments of men, horses and scimitars. 
 
 The reserve, you see it yonder, on the hills to the rear, a gallant band, 
 formed of the Indiana Brigade, under Brigadier Lane, its two regiments 
 commanded by Colonels Bowles and Lane the Mississippi Riflemen, 
 with their leader Colonel Davis, all heroes of Monterey May of Resaca 
 De La Palma, with his dragoons, side by side, and another squadron 
 under Captain Steen the cannon of Bragg and Sherman completes the 
 array. 
 
 These men, with but few exceptions are untried soldiers. Yesterday 
 Zachary Taylor, retreated from Agua Nueva, (some few miles to the 
 south,) and on these hills, he has determined to meet the twenty thousand 
 men, and thirty two pieces of cannon, in battle. 
 
 At eleven o'clock there came from Santa Anna, a messenger of peace, 
 bearing a white flag. He found the old General quietly seated on his 
 grey steed, and placed in his hand the letter of Santa Anna. The Mexican 
 General announced that he was surrounded by twenty thousand men, 
 and summoned him to surrender. 
 
 The reply of Zachary Taylor, has already become battle scripture in 
 the pages of history. Its succinctness and brevity, are eminently re 
 freshing : 
 
 Head Quarters, Army of Occupation. 
 Near Buena Vista, Feb. 22, 1847. 
 
 SIR In reply to your note of this date, summoning me to surrender 
 my forces at discretion, I beg leave to say, that I decline acceding to your 
 request. 
 
 With high respect, I am Sir, 
 
 Your obedient Servant, 
 Z. TAYLOR. 
 
 The day is now wearing toward its close, and a pillar of white smoke 
 suddenly towers upward, along yonder mountain. It is the Shroud of 
 Buena Vista, enfolding the first dead men of the battle. Beneath that 
 cloud, the men of Kentucky, Indiana and Arkansaw, are engaged : you 
 see their arms glitter on the mountain side; they hurl the Mexican light 
 troops before them, and the battery of WASHINGTON' whirling from the 
 centre to the left, pours its thunder, upon the flying foe. 
 
 The battle has begun, but night closes in, and the voice of the fight, is 
 stilled until the rising of the sun. 
 
 The Americans slumber upon the field, without fires although the air 
 is bitter cold, and slumber upon their arms. Through the midnight shadow 
 the mountains rise, girdling the slumbering heroes with their wall of rock, 
 mantling the glitter of their arms, with immense masses of shadow. 
 
126 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Zachary Taylor, is summoned to the north, from Buena Vista to Sal- 
 tillo. General Minon, with a formidable mass of cavalry, hangs round 
 that town, like a cloud, ready to burst upon it, with a hurricane of flame 
 and steel. The veteran WOOL remains at Buena Vista, and the Missis 
 sippi regiment, with the second squadron of dragoons, guard old Taylor 
 on his way. By his side, he beholds Colonel Davis, and Lieutenant Col 
 onel May, brilliant with the glory of Monterey and Resaca De La Palma. 
 
 When Zachary Taylor, came to the field of Buena Vista, on the morn 
 ing of the twenty-third ; the scene, that awaited him, was stirring and sub 
 lime. 
 
 The day had dawned in cloudless beauty, the mountain tops, breaking 
 without a frown, into the serene sky. But now, Buena Vista, lay wrapt 
 in one dense mass of smoke, that hung from mountain to mountain, over 
 a space of three miles. The roofs of the Hacienda, from which the field 
 takes its name, were hidden in cloud and flame. Under the shadow of 
 that pall, Santa Anna hurled the terror of his force, upon the American 
 volunteers, and bathed the mountain sides, in fire. 
 
 From rank to rank, hurried the heroic Wool, his breast exposed to the 
 enemy's deadliest fire, his horse, seen glancing through the clouds of bat 
 tle. His tall athletic form, rose proudly in every part of the field, as with 
 his hawk eye, gleaming with battle light, he hurried his men to the charge. 
 
 When riding from Sallillo, old Taylor came to Buena Vista, and reined 
 his grey, on the ridge, near the defile, this was the sight which he saw : 
 
 Frowning upon the left flank, the Mexicans appeared in overwhelming 
 force, upon the mountain side, their bayonets and lances, shining away, 
 one dazzling flood of steel, until they were lost in the distance. 
 
 While that belt of glittering arms was seen, girdling the mountain's 
 base, they poured their hail of copper and iron from every ridge, and 
 wrapt the Americans in a sheet of flame. The carnage was horrible. One 
 brave captain O'Brien saw every man and horse, around his cannon, 
 crushed with the same fire, into dust. The second Indiana regiment, 
 broke their ranks, and fled towards the Hacienda. 
 
 In vain the gallant Lincoln, a brave descendant of the Revolutionary 
 hero, endeavors to stay their flight ! In vain their own commander, Col 
 onel Bowles, with a small and faithful band, who defy the panic and the 
 foe, places himself in the path, waves the flag of their Regiment, be 
 seeches them to turn and meet the Mexicans with firm ranks and woven 
 steel ! 
 
 Seized with one of those sudden panics, which render powerless, the 
 bravest armies, they retreat and do not pause in their flight, until the 
 Hacienda of Buena Vista breaks on their eyes. 
 
 Meanwhile the battery of Washington, threatened by a steady column, 
 advancing along the centre, did its work, upon their ranks, and scattered 
 their beautiful array, into the shadows of the ravines. 
 
BUENA VISTA. 127 
 
 Colonel Bissell's men, the second Illinois regiment you behold them 
 yonder upon the broad plateau, beneath the mountain perform deeds 
 worthy of the days of old. While Sherman's battery, aids them in the 
 bloody task, they face that sea of flame and steel, rushing upon them, 
 from the mountain side fight step by step, as they are driven backward 
 wave their banner and rush to the certain death once more. 
 
 At this moment, in i'act, the army of Santa Anna, have poured their 
 overwhelming force from the mountain side, turned the American flank, 
 and girdled our rear, with one dense mass of lance and bayonet. 
 
 The moment is critical, the danger imminent. Zachary Taylor feels 
 that the arm which shielded him, at Palo Alta, Resaca De La Palma and 
 Monterey, will not fail him now. 
 
 At his word, Colonel Davis, with his Mississippians, hurries to the left, 
 and the deadly rifles of the west, mow down the advancing Mexicans by 
 hundreds. At his word, Captain Bragg, thunders away, confronts the 
 formidable horde, as it pours from the mountain side, and pours his grape, 
 into their closely-woven ranks. The second Kentucky Regiment, with 
 its commander Me Kee, fought side by side with Hardin and his Illinois 
 volunteers. Amid the very thickest of the fight, the Second Henry Clay, 
 was seen^urging his countrymen forward, as he led the way, and rushed 
 into the Mexican battle, sword in hand. 
 
 As we gaze upon this fight of the mountain and ravine, we see the 
 Mississippi Regiment, completely encircled by the Mexicans, who only 
 pour onward, the faster, as their ranks are blocked with dead. The third 
 Indiana regiment, headed by Col. Lane, come rushing to its aid, and while 
 Sherman and Bragg, pour their blaze from the plateau, a glittering bolt 
 of battle, with young May, dashing in its van, separates from the Ameri 
 can army, and sweeps toward the mountain, where the Mexican lances, 
 flash like a shower of meteors. 
 
 In that battle bolt, you may distinguish the regular dragoons, Pike's Ar- 
 kansaw horse, and the cavalry of Kentucky and Arkansaw headed by 
 Marshall and Yell. The whole fire of the American army was now con 
 centrated upon the base of the mountain : the dead bodies of the Mexi 
 cans began to bridge the smaller gullies, and flood them with a red torrent. 
 
 As the smoke, ascending pile on pile, from the ravine to the mountain, 
 rolled aside, old Taylor saw the work go steadily on, and saw the Banner 
 of the Stars, flash beautifully where the spears and bayonets, joined in 
 their deadliest conflict. 
 
 The battle whirls away toward the Hacienda of Buena Vista : you see 
 the smoke tossing above its roof : Santa Anna would possess the train of 
 the American army. But May comes gallantly to the rescue, and Rey 
 nold's with two pieces of cannon, meet the lancers, as they come, and 
 hews them into dust, as they fly. 
 
128 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 Yell, of Arkansas and Marshall of Kentucky are there, battling with 
 the Mexicans, horse to horse, and sword to sword. That firm column is 
 broken, one portion rushes by the Hacienda, toward the opposite mountain, 
 while the other retracing its steps, seeks to gain the mountain on our left. 
 
 As they receive the fire, pouring from every point of the field, near the 
 Hacienda, a brave soldier, creeps from beneath his dead horse, springs on 
 his feet, his lower jaw, torn away, by the blow of a murderous lance. 
 For a moment he stands gazing upon the divided array of the Mexicans, 
 and he then falls to rise no more. The gallant YELL had fought his last 
 battle. 
 
 Look, through the mists of the battle, and behold that band of Mexi 
 cans, at least one thousand strong, crowded in the narrow gorge, which is 
 raked by the American cannon. In vain they attempt to fly ; their ranks 
 become entangled ; they are crushed into the bed of the ravine ; a wild 
 and affrighted Mob, scatters through the pass ; where a moment ago, was 
 but one glittering array of steel, now is only a dark and hideous Golgotha. 
 
 It was at this moment, that the old General, calmly surveying the fight, 
 his brown coat, visible from every part or the field, a mark for the 
 musquets and cannon of the enemy was surprised by the appearance of 
 another messenger from Santa Anna, bearing a White Flag. 
 
 "His Excellency General Santa Anna," said the officer bowing 
 " Desires to know, what General Taylor wants ?" 
 
 " Wants ?" echoed the veteran " I want him to surrender !" 
 
 This was bold language from the leader of four thousand volunteers, 
 to the General of twenty thousand brave Mexicans. 
 
 Willing however, even amid that hour of havoc, to hear the proposi 
 tions of the Mexican Chief, he silenced the American fire. At his com 
 mand, the second General of the day, the brave WOOL, rode toward the 
 Mexican line, seeking an interview with Santa Anna, but was greeted with 
 a treacherous fire. The White Flag, was but a trick of the Mexican, to 
 save the portion of his fores, which had been divided near the Hacienda. 
 
 Amid the clouds which rolled to the right, young CRITTENDEN of Ken 
 tucky, a volunteer, for that day, near the person of Taylor, rode forward, 
 with a summons to the commander of that immense body of Mexican 
 cavalry, which had been cut off' from the main body of the Mexican 
 army. 
 
 He summoned the commander of this force to surrender, in the name 
 of Taylor, and was led blind-folded, through ravine and gully, until a loud 
 flourish of drums and trumpets, announced that he was in the presence of 
 Santa Anna. 
 
 " Your mission ?" 
 
 " To demand the surrender of a portion of your force, separated by 
 our soldiers, from your army." 
 
 " But Taylor" said the Mexican Chief, in abrupt tones : his words 
 
BUENA VISTA. 129 
 
 were translated by an officer, who stood by his side " What does he 
 mean to do ? Surrounded by twenty thousand men, he must surrender ?" 
 Then it was, that this young Kentuckian, born of the land of Boone, 
 and Taylor and Clay, felt the blood rush to his cheek, as looking the 
 Mexican Dictator in the eye, he uttered the phrase, which has already, 
 been linked with the ' Come and take me /' of ancient story : 
 
 "GENERAL TAYLOR NEVER SURRENDERS!" 
 
 But why need we picture, the course of those ten hours of Buena 
 Vista, in all their details of agony and glory ? Where twenty thousand 
 men, advancing around the base of mountains, and dashing from ravines, 
 level their forest of steel, their volcano of flame, upon a band, only four 
 thousand strong, you may be sure, that the carnage is horrible. 
 
 But when we remember, the wild and broken nature of the ground, that 
 valley of ridges and chasms, three miles in extent, almost impracticable, 
 for artillery or cavalry, it becomes plain, that there was much of the silent 
 butchery of bayonet to lance, and sword to sword, and breast to breast. 
 
 To speak of all the heroes of the band of Buena Vista, as they de 
 serve, would fill a volume. Their conduct, forever frowns into oblivion, 
 the silly lie, uttered by silly men, that the Citizen Soldier, is not to be 
 depended upon in the hour of need. These brilliant names, were that 
 day, painted in blood, on the American Banner Davis, Me Kee, Clay, 
 Marshall, Hardin, Yell and Vaughan, Lincoln, Pike, Lane and Wool, 
 O'Brien and Bryan, Bissell and Sherman, Bragg and Reynolds, Steen and 
 Me Cullough, Bowles and Gorman, Kilburn and Rucker, Monroe and 
 Morrison, Brent, Whiting and Couch ; Thomas, French, Shover, Donald 
 son, May, Washington, Taylor all brave, some wounded, some killed, 
 some of the regular, others of the Volunteer force, but all glorious, as 
 were a thousand other heroes, with the halo of Buena Vista. 
 
 From the scenes of the bloody day, let us select but two, as memo 
 rable examples of the stern daring of Taylor and his men. 
 
 Mounted on his grey steed with one leg crossed over the saddle, the 
 old Man beholds the Mexicans emerge from yonder ravine, their numbers, 
 marked by their lances and bayonets. 
 
 Near Zachery Taylor, glooms the battery of Captain Bragg ; a cool 
 soldier, who never fires, until he sees the color of the enemys' faces. On 
 come the Mexicans on, with their lances flashing, their war-horses, beat 
 ing the earth, with a sound like thunder, their entire array, closing in the 
 prospect, with one dazzling battle barricade. 
 
 Taylor's grey eye begins to look, as it looked at Palo Alto ! 
 
 Then the battery speaks out, and you may read the faces of an hundred 
 dyino- men by its light. Do you see that glimpse of clear sky through 
 
 16 
 
130 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 their ranks ? Do you hear the horrible howl of horse and man, go up to 
 God together ? 
 
 Taylor bends forward ; he sees those columns quiver, but still the mo 
 ment is one of absording interest. That cannister, hurled from the muzzle 
 of Bragg's cannon is deadly as they press on, with but a few yards be 
 tween, it crashes them down as though a bolt from heaven had blasted 
 their flags and lances into blood. 
 
 Still they come on ; the old man can maintain his silence no longer ; 
 leaning forward, with every vein in his bronzed face glowing and swelling 
 with the impulse of that terrible hour, he lays his hand on the shoulder 
 of the undaunted Captain 
 
 " A little more grape, Captain Bragg !" 
 
 He says it in a whisper, but the Soldier hears him, and feels that voice 
 stir his blood like a trumpet peal. Turning away with a flushed forehead, 
 he obeys the mild request of his General, and as the Mexicans come up 
 to the muzzles once more, he speaks to them with grape ! 
 
 When the smoke clears away, you see the edge of the ravine lined 
 with dead men, and the arms of the retreating Mexicans, glittering from 
 the shades below. 
 
 It was near the setting of the sun, when the Man of Palo Alto, Resaca 
 de la Palma, and Monterey, saw the clouds come down on fche last charge 
 of Buena Vista, that a scene, worthy of the days of Washington, closed 
 the day in glory. 
 
 Do you behold that dark ravine, deep sunken between these precipitous 
 banks ? Here no sunlight comes, for these walls of rock wrap the pass 
 in eternal twilight. Withered trees grow between the masses of granite, 
 and scattered stones make the bed of the ravine uncertain and difficult for 
 the tread. 
 
 Hark ! That cry, that rush like a mountain torrent bursting its barriers, 
 and quick as the lightning flashes from darkness, the dismal ravine is 
 bathed in red battle light. From its northern extremity, a confused band 
 of Mexicans, an army in itself, come yelling along the pass, treading one 
 another down as they fly, their banners, spears, horses and men, tossed 
 together in inextricable confusion. 
 
 By thousands they rush into the shadows of the pass, their dark faces 
 reddened by the sheeted blaze of musquetry. The caverns of the ravine 
 sends back the roar of the panic, and the grey rocks are washed by their 
 blood. 
 
 But the little band who pursues this army ? Who are they ? You 
 may see in their firm heroic ranks, the volunteer costume of Illinois and 
 Kentucky. At their head, urging his men with shouts, rides the gallant 
 M'Kee, by his side young Henry Clay, that broad forehead, which re- 
 
BUENA VISTA. 131 
 
 minds you of his father, bathed in the glare, as his sword quivers on high 
 ere it falls to kill. There too, a wild figure, red with his own blood and 
 the blood of Mexican foes, his uniform rent in tatters, his arm bared to the 
 shoulder, striking terrible blows with his good sword Hardin of Illinois, 
 comes gallantly forward. 
 
 This small, but iron band, hurl the Mexicans from the heights into the 
 ravine, and follow up the chase, far down into the eternal twilight of that 
 mountain pass. 
 
 Look ! As their musquetry streams its steady blaze, you would think 
 that one ceaseless sheet of lightning bathed these rocks in flame I 
 
 Over the Mexicans, man and horse, hurled back in mad disorder, the 
 Americans dash on their way, never heeding the overwhelming numbers 
 of their foes, never heeding the palpitating forms beneath their feet, with 
 bayonet, and rifle, and sword, they press steadily on, their well-known 
 banner streaming evermore overhead. 
 
 The howl of the dying war-horse hark ! Does it not chill your blood 
 to hear it? The bubbling cry of the wounded man, with the horse's 
 hoof upon his mouth, trampling his face into a hideous wreck does it 
 not sicken your soul to hear it ? 
 
 A hundred yards or more, into the pass the Americans have penetrated, 
 when suddenly a young Mexican, rushing back upon their ranks, seiz-es 
 the fallen flag of Anahuac, and dashes to his death ! 
 
 To see him, young and beardless, a very boy, rush with his country's 
 flag, with his bared breast, upon that line of sharp steel it was a sight to 
 stir cowards into manhood, and it shot into the Mexican hearts like an 
 electric flame. 
 
 Even in their panic-stricken disorder, they turned ; by hundreds they 
 grasped their arms, and rolled in one long wave of lance and bayonet, upon 
 the foe. Woe to the brave men of Illinois and Kentucky now ! Locked 
 in that deadly pass, a wall of infuriated Mexicans between them and that 
 wall of rocks above their heads, through every aperture among the 
 cliffs, the blaze of musquets pouring a shower of bullets in their faces 
 wherever they turned, the long and deadly lance poised at their throats 
 it was a moment to think once of Home and die ! 
 
 Those who survived that fearful moment, tell with shuddering triumph 
 of the deeds of the three heroes M'Kee, Hardin and Clay. 
 
 M'Kee, you see him yonder, with his shattered sword dripping blood, 
 he endeavors to ward off the aim of those deadly lances, and fights on his 
 knees when he can stand no longer, and then the combatants close over 
 him and you see him no more. 
 
 Hardin, rose from a heap of slaughtered foes, his face streaming from 
 its hideous lance wounds, and waved a Mexican flag, in triumph, as his 
 life blood gushed in a torrent over his muscular form. That instant, the 
 full light of battle was upon his mangled face. Then, flinging the cap- 
 
J32 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 tured flag to a brother soldier, he shouted " Give it to her, as a memorial 
 of Buena Vista ! My Wife !" It was his last word. Upon his bared 
 breast, the fury of ten lances rushed, and the horses' hoofs trampled him 
 into the heap of dead. 
 
 But most sad and yet most glorious of all, it was, to see the death of 
 the Second HENRY CLAY! You should have seen him, with his back 
 against yonder rock, his sword grasped firmly, as the consciousness that 
 he bore a name that must not die ingloriously, seemed to fill his every 
 vein, and dart a deadly fire from his eyes ! 
 
 At that moment he looked like the old Man. 
 
 For his brow, high and retreating, with the blood-clotted hair waving 
 back from its outline, was swollen in every ve-in, as though his Soul shone 
 from it, ere she fled forever. Lips set, brows knit, hand firm a circle 
 of his men fighting round him he dashed into the Mexicans, until his 
 sword was wet, his arm weary with blood. 
 
 At last, with his thigh splintered by a ball, he gathered his proud form 
 to its full height, and fell. His face, ashy with .intense agony, he bade 
 his comrades to leave him there to die. That ravine, should be the bed 
 of his glory. 
 
 But gathering round him, a guard of breasts and steel while two of 
 their number bore him tenderly along those men of Kentucky fought 
 round their fallen hero, and as retreating step by step, they launched their 
 swords and bayonets into the faces of the foe, they said with every blow 
 HENRY CLAY !" 
 
 It was wonderful to see how that name nerved their arms, and called 
 a smile to the face of the dying hero. How it would have made the heart 
 of the old man of Ashland throb, to have heard his name, yelling as a battle 
 cry, down the shadows of that lonely pass ! 
 
 Along the ravine, and up this narrow path ! The Hero bleeds as they 
 bear him on, and tracks the way with his blood. Faster and thicker the 
 Mexicans swarm they see the circle around the fallen man, even see his 
 pale face, uplifted, as a smile crosses it fading lineaments, and like a pack 
 of wolves scenting the frozen traveller at dead of night, they come howl 
 ing up the rocks, and charge the devoted band with one dense mass of 
 bayonets. 
 
 Up and on ! The light shines yonder, on the topmost rocks of the 
 ravine. It is the light of the setting sun. Old Taylor's eye is upon that 
 rock, and there we will fight our way, and die in the old man's sight ! 
 
 It was a murderous way, that path up the steep bank of the ravine ! 
 Littered with dead, slippery with blood, it grew blacker every moment 
 with swarming Mexicans, and the defenders of the wounded hero, fell one 
 by one, into the chasms yawning all around. 
 
 At last they reach the light, the swords and bayonets glitter in sight of 
 
BUENA VISTA. 133 
 
 the contending armies, and the bloody contest roars towards the topmost 
 rock. 
 
 Then it was, that gathering up his dying frame armed with superna 
 tural vigor young Clay started from the arms of his supporters, and stood 
 with outstretched hands, in the light of the setting sun. It was a glorious 
 sight which he saw there, amid the rolling battle clouds ; Santa Anna's 
 formidable array hurled back into ravine and gorge, by Taylor's little 
 band ! But a more glorious thing it was to see, that dying man, standing 
 for the last time, in the light of that sun, which never shall rise for him 
 again ! 
 
 " Leave me !" he shrieked, as he fell back on the sod " I must die 
 and I will die here ! Peril your lives no longer for me ! Go ! There 
 is work for you yonder !" 
 
 The Mexicans crowding on, hungry for slaughter, left no time for 
 thought. Even as he spoke, their bayonets, glistening by hundreds, were 
 levelled at the throats of the devoted band. By the mere force of their 
 overwhelming numbers, they crushed them back from the side of the 
 dying Clay. 
 
 One, only lingered ; a brave man, who had known the chivalric Sol 
 dier, and loved him long ; he stood there, and covered as he was with 
 blood, heard these last words : 
 
 " Tell my Father how 1 died, and give him these pistols /" 
 
 Lifting his ashy face, into light, he turned his eyes, upon his comrades 
 face placed the pistols in his hand and fell back to his death. 
 
 That Comrade, with the pistols in his grasp, fought his way alone to 
 the topmost rock of the path, and only once looked back. He saw, a 
 quivering form, canopied by bayonets he saw those outstretched hands 
 grappling with points of steel he saw a pale face lifted once, in the light, 
 and then darkness, rushed upon the life of the young HENRY CLAY. 
 
 Placing his hands behind his back, with his head on his breast, a tall 
 old man, strode thoughtfully along the carpet, of his chamber. It was 
 near the evening hour, and the blush of summer, was upon those woods 
 and hills, which you may see through the uncurtained window. 
 
 Were you to meet this old man among ten thousand you would know 
 him when you saw him again, and did you once behold that wide mouth, 
 wreathe in a smile, that grey eye, fire with soul, that brow, high and re 
 lenting, glow with his heart, you would be very sure to love him. 
 
 But the voice, that rings from those lips, and swells from that chest 
 you should hear it, melt in pity, or hiss in scorn, or thunder forth the 
 frenzy of a great soul ' 
 
 Plainly clad in a dark dress, his face covered with the large wrinkles 
 of seventy years, this old man, is thinking over his life. From a log hut 
 into a Senate, from the arms of a widowed mother, into the Jove of a na- 
 
134 THE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 an impressive life, wild, vivid startling, in on every line, with 
 Genius. 
 
 But he is old now. Those grey hairs, tell of the coming on of the fast 
 crowding years. The things of political strife, who loved the old man, 
 as a miser loves a diamond, not on account of its pure and beautiful light, 
 but from the great query how much will it bring? seem to have for 
 gotten him. They have left him, to the Hearts of the People. 
 
 He paces the floor, and thinks of the days he has seen. Born in the 
 Revolution, he grew up among its memories and saw the greatest among 
 its great men. 
 
 Where are they now ? Where the comrades of his earlier days ? 
 Where the compeers of his manhood ? Where the most gallant of all 
 his foes, whose soul, was warmed with fire, like that which gave his own 
 heart its energy, its love and its fate, where the Man of New Orleans and 
 the Hermitage ? 
 
 There is grass above his grave. 
 
 Like the last column, standing erect, in a desert of ruins, the old man is 
 left alone. 
 
 You may take my word for it, that his thoughts at this still hour, are 
 strangled and contrasted in their hues, as the Ghosts of the Past, come 
 crowding up to him, their faces looking sadly out from the shrouds of 
 Memory. 
 
 The door is opened a man appears, whose scarred face, and battle- 
 worn figure, speak of the land of Mexico. You gaze upon the old man, 
 as he motions the Stranger to a seat. He reads in that face, the volume 
 of a sad yet heroic history. The Stranger does not move, but stands in 
 the sunset glow, his nether lip, quivering faintly. 
 
 Advancing he endeavors to speak, but there is a spell on his tongue. 
 
 He can only place in the old man's hands a pair of pistols. 
 
 "BuENA VISTA !" he said, and turned away unwilling to witness the 
 tears and agony of the Father. 
 
 When he looked again the twilight shadow was gathering fast the 
 old man, stood near the window gazing silently upon those eloquent me 
 morials of HENRY CLAY, his Son. 
 
 We left the young hero, on his couch of stone, with twenty bayonets 
 in his breast. That ravine, far down into the shadows, was lined with 
 Mexicans, who came swarming towards, the topmost rock, glittering in 
 the sunset glow. From every nook and cavern, they poured, like jackals 
 to a warrior's corse, and their overwhelming numbers, lighting the dark 
 pass, with an endless blaze of steel they advanced, to the topmost rock, 
 and displayed in battle order, along the summit of the ridge. 
 
 But the battery yonder, stationed on a higher ridge what does it 
 mean ? Washington and his sturdy cannoniers, are there ! On the 
 
BUENA VISTA. 
 
 plateau, you see, the riflemen of Mississippi, stand shoulder to shoulder, 
 with the volunteers of Indiana, with the cannon of Bragg, frowning 
 through the intervals of their solid ranks. 
 
 The sun, was setting, and that firm array on the plateau, looked beau 
 tiful, as it stood prepared, to receive the last onset of the Mexican horde. 
 Not a shout disturbed the silence, on the American side. 
 
 The Mexicans you behold them by thousands, horse and foot, along 
 the summit of this ridge their banners, spears and bayonets, forming 
 one glittering pageant, as far as eye can see. 
 
 Look on them well, in this moment of their glory, for a smoke rolls 
 over the plateau, and the hurricane of death, is on its way ! 
 
 When the smoke rolls up the Mouutain side, you see the ridge heaped 
 with dead, while far down the ravine, rushes the wreck of that formidable 
 force, retreating from the last charge of Buena Vista. 
 
 Night on Buena Vista ! 
 
 It was a sad, an awful night. The stars shone serenely on the moun 
 tain top, while all beneath was dim and dark. Through the gloom, at 
 irregular intervals broke the glare of torch-light, only making the darkness 
 more sad and dismal. . 
 
 The Americans slept on their arms, without fire. The night was bitter 
 cold; the moans of the dying, joined in chorus,*from the depths of the 
 ravines ; and the living moved silently along, endeavoring to recognise, 
 their own dead by the light of the stars. 
 
 From afar, the camp fires of Santa Anna's army, were seen, ever and 
 again, as the battle vapor rolled aside. The Americans slept well, on 
 their tired arms, but in the passes of the defile, upon the ridges and over 
 the plateau, there were those who slumbered not. 
 
 The women of Mexico, soothing the agonies of the dying strangers ! 
 
 Their garments, fluttered through the darkness, as they went to and fro, 
 staunching the blood, placing to the feverish lip, the cup of water, bending 
 beside the dying in prayer. Prayer in a strange tongue, prayer on a 
 strange battle field, in a strange land how it went to the hearts of the 
 American soldiers, and made them remember the Homes, they should 
 never see again ! 
 
 There were others who slumbered not, but watched in anxious expec 
 tation, for the moment, when the conflict would begin again. 
 
 Amid the band of watchers, on the summit of yonder ridge, stands the 
 old man, Zachary Taylor, his form dimly revealed in the light of the 
 stars. Beside him his favorite grey ; before him, the darkened field, 
 yawning with chasms, he stands with uncovered head, his grey eyes up 
 lifted to the sky. The morrow ? What new danger will it bring, what 
 new conflict in those hideous gorges of Buena Vista ? Through the live 
 long night the old warrior prepared for the worst. 
 
W4 .aE BATTLES OF TAYLOR. 
 
 The morning came at last, and looking to the south, far through the 
 mountain pass, Zachary Taylor, beheld the retreating banners of Santa 
 Anna. 
 
 Then it was, that sitting down amid the dead of that heroic fight, the 
 old man penned his immortal despatch, and sent word to the Capitol, 
 that with his four thousand untried volunteers, he had beaten Santa Anna 
 and twenty thousand men, in the chasms of Buena Vista. 
 
 That word rang through the American Union, like a voice from the 
 grave of Washington, and thundering along the Gulf of Mexico, it nerved 
 the arms of the brave men, who besieged the Castle of San Juan De 
 Ulloa, and found its glorious consumation in the fall of Vera Cruz and 
 route of CERRO GORDO. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 REV. C. CHAUNCEY BURR: 
 
 When first I determined to write the Legends of Mexico ancient and modern, 
 
 from the era of Scott and Taylor, back through the mists of ages, to Cortez and 
 Montezuma it was your generous sympathy with my purposes, that gave me strength 
 and deepened my enthusiasm for the jask. These works on Mexico every one of 
 which is intended to be distinct and separate, yet forming together, a complete book 
 on the ' golden and bloody land' I now dedicate to you, in this the first of the series, 
 embodying the BATTLES OF TAYLOR. This Dedication, my tried friend, is no less a 
 token of that brotherhood which I feel with you, than a tribute to your commanding 
 Genius, which having ranked you among the first orators, will soon claim admiration 
 for you, among the first Essayists of the Nineteenth Century. 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 GEORGE LIPPARD, 
 AUGUCT 15, 1847. WISSAHIKON. 
 
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