"Column, close order—march!"
So everybody came to a shoulder arms, the ranks closed, the drums again tapped the cadence of ninety steps to the minute.
General Scott hastened by with his staff and escort, and continued on to join the Twiggs advance, it was said.
"Route step—march!"
The day, August 9, was sunny and warm. The City of Mexico lay about ninety miles west, beyond the next range of mountains. From the pass over the range the Valley of Mexico and the city would be seen.
At the end of the third day's march camp was pitched amidst an icy drizzle, in a high valley named the Rio Frio or Cold Water Valley. There had been a stiff climb through pine forests but the pass was near before. General Worth, riding his horse among the regiments, directed that timber be cut by the messes and fires built. Soon the dark rainy valley was aglow with the log blazes of the First Division bivouac, here ten thousand feet up, in the Anahuac Mountains.
Jerry was warm and comfortable, rolled in his blanket beside the fire, his drum stowed in its oilcloth housing.
"Ah, weel, I've seen worse in Scotland," Private "Scotty" MacPheel remarked.
"Sure, we'll niver mind whin we're all a-livin' cosy-loike in the Halls o' Montezumy," said Corporal Finerty. "Faith, an' they're not fur now. Jist over the top o' the hill, an' down."
The fires gradually died under the pelting rain.
