"The poor old Eighth Regiment Foot," Hannibal murmured soberly. "That hurt General Worth, I guess, to see us cut up so. We've lost ten out of twenty officers. The storming column didn't hear a sound from those breastworks—didn't see a sign of life, hardly, beyond the cactus. It was the same with the Second Brigade at the Casa-Mata. Then when we were right at the trenches, the Mexicans opened on us, just mowed us down. Eleven officers of the fourteen! Think of that! I got two bullets through my uniform and a handful through my drum. See those holes? Talk about 'brushing away the enemy!' My eye! Old Fuss and Feathers was fooled for once. We didn't gain much."
"We showed what we could do again."
"You can't show those Mexicans anything. Listen to that music?" For the bells of the City of Mexico were ringing madly. "The bells weren't in the mill at all. Now they're being rung for victory, because we didn't take Chapultepec. The Mexicans think we stopped short, and they're celebrating." Hannibal shook his grimy fist at the city. "You wait till we get breath," he warned.
"Suppose we'll take Chapultepec next."
"I dunno." And Hannibal wagged his head. "This division ought to be given a rest. We're reduced almost to fourteen hundred. Since we started in at San Antonio we've lost eleven hundred men, some sick, but mainly killed and wounded. The whole army's lost only nineteen hundred. I guess the First has done its share of fighting."
"That leaves General Scott with about eight thousand."
