General Houston was still behind the centre――he was waving his old whitish hat and shouting, as if still bidding the infantry to hold their fire.
“Hold your fire, confound you! Hold your fire!” he roared.
The fluter was playing. “Will You Come to the Bower?” piped the notes, as waist high in the grass the long line swept on, with never a shout, and with the gold-fringed, glove-capped flag of the Newport Volunteers streaming in the breeze. The Twin Sisters spoke again, and advanced, their horses at a gallop.
There was a thud of hoofs close by Ernest. The horseman from the west had arrived. He was Deaf Smith. His horse was lathered with sweat, his swarthy face was dripping, he was blackened and muddy. Past Ernest he sped, struck the right of the line, flourishing his ax.
“Vince’s Bridge is down!” he screamed. “Fight for your lives, and remember the Alamo!”
Along the line he raced, reiterating his message. General Houston had spurred through the gap left by the artillery and was to the front, himself.
“Vince’s Bridge is down!” he repeated louder than Deaf Smith. “Charge! Charge! Remember the Alamo!”
A blare of voices which seemed to rock the prairie answered him.
The piping of the flute and the booms of the Twin Sisters alike were drowned by that tremendous yell. The line broke into a run. It was now not 100 yards from the Mexican breastworks――General Houston leading the centre. The Twin Sisters could not fire again, for the gap had closed before them, as the Millard musketeers and the Burleson riflemen joined flanks.
Bugles had sounded from the Mexican camp――all appeared in turmoil there; but suddenly a bloom of white smoke enveloped the front of the breastworks, and a volley of musketry and cannon shot crashed through the soft air. Bullets whined by, overhead. Ernest’s eyes leaped to the Texan line again. It had not fallen――it was surging on――the general sat upright――but his horse staggered――no, kept its feet. Was it hit? Why didn’t the army shoot? Ah――the line had abruptly halted, with the Mexican breastworks only sixty yards away; the rifles and muskets were levelled, and veiled in smoke. Back to the breastworks reeled the first Mexican soldiery. It looked as if every bullet had found a mark. See! The line did not wait even to reload. It raced on, shouting, “Remember the Alamo! Remember Travis! Remember Fannin!” What a medley of savage cheers! The men had drawn their pistols; they had reversed their rifles, to club with them. General Houston’s horse was swallowed up――maybe it was down――as right against the breastworks burst the line――burst, breaker-like, into a high spray of pistol and musket shots, lunging knives and bayonets, rifle butts rising and falling, horses leaping――and poured over!