Yet it seemed that Wool, a brave and resolute leader, was right. A great percentage of the American army was already killed or wounded. Many of its best officers had fallen, and everywhere the Mexicans continually pressed forward in columns that grew heavier and heavier. Santa Anna worthily proved that day that, whatever he may have been otherwise he possessed devouring energy, great courage, and a spark of military genius. And the generals around him, Lombardini, Pacheco, Villamil, Torrejon, Ampudia, Minon, Juvera, Andrade, and the rest were full of the Latin fire which has triumphed more than once over the cold courage and order of the North. The crisis was visible to every one. Ampudia and his infantry passing to the rear of the American army must be stopped. Davis gathered his Mississippians and hurled them upon Ampudia’s men, who outnumbered them five to one. They fired, then rushed down one slope of a ravine that separated them from the enemy, and up the other slope directly into the ranks of the Mexicans; firing another volley almost face to face. So great was their impact that the head of the Mexican column was shattered, and the whole of it was driven back. Ampudia’s men, by regiments, sought shelter along the slopes of the mountain. The battle was saved for the moment, but for the moment only. Few battles have swung in the balance oftener than this combat at Buena Vista, when it seemed as if the weight of a hair might decide it. "We can breathe again, Phil," cried Breakstone. "They haven’t flanked us there, but I don’t think we’ll have time for more than two breaths." The battle, just in front of them, paused for an instant or two, but it went on with undiminished fury elsewhere. While Phil let his heated rifle cool, he watched this terrible conflict at the mouth of the grim pass, a combat that swung to and fro and that refused to be decided in favor of either. But, as he rested, all his courage came back anew. The little army, the boy volunteers, had already achieved the impossible. For hours they had held off the best of the Mexican troops, five to their one. More than once they had been near to the verge, but nobody could say that they had been beaten. Phil’s feeling of awe came again, as he looked at the great stage picture, set with all the terrible effects of reality. The smoke rose always, banking up against the sides of the mountain, but dotted with red and pink spots, the flame from the rifles of the sharpshooters who lurked among the crags. From the mouth of the pass came a steady roaring where the cannon of Washington were fired so fast. The smoke banked up there, too, but it was split continually by the flash of the great guns. Out of the smoke came the unbroken crash of rifles, resembling, but on a much larger scale, the ripping of a heavy cloth. Now and then both sides shouted and cheered.