The lieutenant ran for the building, Jerry after. There was no way of climbing atop.
"Here, you men! Place that cart for me."
A broken cart was trundled to the wall of the building; the heavy tongue just reached the top. Lieutenant Grant used this as a ladder. He shinned up, Jerry following, while the men below formed file to join.
But somebody had been ahead of the lieutenant. He was one man: none other than Fifer O'Toole, parading back and forth with a musket. Fifer O'Toole grinned.
"Sure, I'm saving 'em for you, lieutenant," he reported.
They were a fat Mexican major and several subalterns, with full a dozen privates; and they were quite ready to surrender, for at sight of Lieutenant Grant's drawn sword they unbuckled their belts and dropped their guns.
"The fortunes of war, señor," the major said in good English, shrugging his shoulders. "We fight like men, but you Americans fight like demons."
"Very good, sir," the lieutenant answered shortly, stacking the scabbards in his arms. "Crack those muskets over the edge of the wall, lads, and conduct these prisoners to the proper guard."
He himself lingered a minute upon the roof. Jerry breathlessly waited. The mill had been taken. There were only a few scattered shots among the buildings, as the soldiers below or ranging the roofs jumped Mexican skulkers from hiding places; but to the west the battle was still raging furiously. From the roof-top a good view might be had.
