The Pillow brigade was coming. Those Pennsylvanians and Tennesseeans had been directed to storm Telegraph Hill from in front, if possible; they had several batteries to carry, first. No pleasant job, that; and all as a feint to hold the Mexicans occupied on the roadside.
The First Division branched to the right, and into the brush through which the pioneers had hacked a rough trail. The faces of the soldiers were stern; some white, some red, with excitement. The battle clamor arose so loud that the drums and fifes could scarcely be heard. A dense cloud of smoke covered the hills before. Were those cheers, mingled with the bellowing of cannon and the roll of muskets? From whom—the Mexicans or the blue-coats? Jerry stumbled as he half ran, trying to stay close to Lieutenant Grant.
The trail was cumbered with tree trunks and rocks and cactus. After a time the Fourth Regiment rounded the base of a hill, and emerged at a ravine running crosswise, at the very foot of Telegraph Hill itself. Upon the top of the first hill cannon were thundering. And look! The hither slope of the other hill was alive with men, toiling up in ragged lines, following the colors. They were blue-coats—Regulars! The standard of the Mounted Rifles waved on the left, in the ravine. The Mexican batteries and entrenchments were shooting down upon the storming columns, the Rifles were deploying and facing a charge upon the stormers' flank; and from the top of the first hill the twenty-four-pounders were pouring grape and ball across, into the higher hill, El Telegrapho.
