in the Second Brigade. Colonel Clarke's our commander. Garland's commander of the First Brigade. They're both good men—and so's General Worth. My eye! Isn't he, though! You're lucky to have struck the Regulars. If you'd stayed with the Mohawks—my eye!"
"Who are they, Hannibal?"
"The Volunteers. We call 'em 'Mohawks' because they're so wild. They're General Patterson's division, the Third: the Palmettos—those are the South Carolinans; the First and Second Tennessee Mountaineers; the First and Second Pennsylvania Keystoners; the Second New Yorkers; the Third and Fourth Illinois Suckers; the Georgia Crackers, and the Alabamans. Guess they can fight, but they're awful on discipline. Won't even salute their officers. Expect you passed through them on your way from the naval battery."
The sun had risen, flooding all the chaparral and glinting on the gulf surges beyond the fringing beach. The uproar of the cannon in castle and city had welled to a deep, angry chorus; the American guns were answering; the morning air quivered to the quick explosions; and over city and strip of plain a cloud of black smoke floated higher and higher, veiling the sun itself. Now and then a piece of shell drooned in, skimming the sand hills and kicking up puffs of dust. A round-shot of solid iron actually came rolling down a slope and landed at their very feet. Jerry stooped to feel of it. Ouch! It was still hot.
"Shucks!" Hannibal laughed. "Put it in your pocket." He cocked his cap defiantly. "It's a dead one. When you're in your first battle you think
