The Baltimore battalion.

the thousand musketeers on the house-tops, and in the barricades at the head of the street up which we advanced, and at every cross street, and you may form some idea of the deluge of balls poured upon us. (Bear in mind that the four companies of regulars were now with us, the one intermingled with the other.) Onward we went, men and horses falling at every step. Cheers, shrieks, groans, and words of command added to the din, whilst the roar of the guns was absolutely deafening.

We had advanced up the street under this awful and fatal fire, nearly two hundred yards, when we reached a cross street, at the corner of which all who had succeeded in getting this far alive, halted, as if by mutual consent. I was shaking Colonel Watson by the hand, while he was complimenting me, when a shower of grape, round, and canister shot came from the corner above, and five officers fell, and I do not know how many privates. Each man sought some place of apparent shelter.

I sat down on the ground, with my back to the wall of a house. On my left were two men torn nearly to pieces. One of them was lying flat on his back, with his legs extending farther into the street than mine. Crash came another shower of grape, which tore one of his wounded legs off. He reared up, shrieked, and fell back a corpse. I never moved, for I was satisfied that one place was as safe as another. Directly opposite to me was my brevet 2d Lieutenant Aisquith; on the right hand corner was Lieutenant Bowie, also of my company; and close to me sat Colonel Watson and Adjutant Schæler. In a few minutes, I saw our colour-sergeant, old Hart, come past with his right arm shattered, (it has

*

The Baltimore battalion.

since been amputated,) and in a few minutes, there came our battalion flag, borne by one of the colourguards, our glorious stars and stripes; and, note this, that it was the first American flag in the city of Monterey-an honour which we know belongs to our battalion. Above, below, alongside, between legs and arms, every where the balls whistled and howled. The air seemed cut to pieces by the quantity that the artillery hurled at us, and it would be childish to tell how close they came to me, and what and how many escapes I had. I was exposed to ot in that fight for nine hours. * Colonel Watso. net with a gallant soldier's death-his face to the foe. H 'oss is deplored by all who know his generosity of heart and chivalry of character. To me, individually, it is great, but to the battalion it is irreparable."

T

HE genial soil of the Old Dominion, noble, brave, patriotic Virginia, which has given to the republic a host of illustrious names, in the senate, the army, and on the ocean, was the birthplace also of the gallant soldier whose life forms the subject of the present sketch. Winfield Scott was born June 13th, 1786, at the family seat, near Petersburg. His parents were of Scottish descent.

Of his earlier years but little is known out of the circle of his family. He chose the legal profession, and finished his studies at about his twenty-first year. His disposition for military pursuits manifested itself about the same time. The proclamation of the president, issued after the dastardly attack on the Chesapeake,