More than once I
was in violent collision with Colorado men, distinguished from ours
by their uniform, and several furious blows with sword and lance were
aimed at me, but somehow I escaped them all. I emptied the six chambers
of my Colt's revolver, but whether my bullets did any execution or not
I cannot pretend to say. In the end I found myself surrounded by four
of our men who were furiously spurring their horses out of the fight.
"Whip up, Captain, come with us this way," shouted one of them who
knew me, and who always insisted on giving me a title to which I had
no right.
As we rode away, skirting the hill towards the south, he assured me
that all was lost, in proof of which he pointed to scattered bodies
of our men flying from the field in all directions. Yes, we were
defeated; that was plain to see, and I needed little encouragement
from my fellow-runaways to spur my horse to its utmost speed. Had the
falcon eye of Santa Coloma rested on me at that moment he might have
added to the list of Oriental traits he had given me the un-English
faculty of knowing when I was beaten. I was quite as anxious, I believe,
to save my skin--_throat_, we say in the Banda Oriental--as any
horseman there, not even excepting the monkey-faced boy with the squeaky
voice.
If the curious reader, thirsting for knowledge, will consult the
Uruguayan histories, I daresay he will find a more scientific
description of the battle of San Paulo than I have been able to give.
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