The First Brigade was in motion, marching back down the road for San Augustine. The music proved a dismal failure. Presently, stumbling and slipping in the mud, with clothes and knapsacks weighing a ton to the man, the column was passing the camp of the Second Brigade. The Second Brigade's fires had long been quenched, but sentries could be dimly seen; beside the road figures were lying rolled in blankets, lights were glimmering feebly in the guard tent and brigade headquarter's tent.
The Second Brigade was not going! The First Brigade had been selected! Hooray! And the Clarke men would be sick when they knew. Jerry chuckled to himself, thinking of Hannibal, who was missing out. At the same time he wondered whether he would see Hannibal again. But General Worth was with the First. His voice had been heard. And no doubt Old Fuss and Feathers was impatiently waiting, bent upon victory.
Slosh, slosh, slide and stumble, in the downpour and the blackness.
"Close up, men! Close up! Keep in touch."
After what seemed to be a long, long time they were trudging heavily through silent San Augustine, south of the lava field. Except for cavalry pickets, it appeared to be deserted. The reserve there—the Marines and Second Pennsylvania—had gone. General Scott of course had gone. All the infantry and artillery were being gathered at Contreras for a decisive fight.
Slosh, slosh, slide and stumble and grumble. After another long time the darkness began to thin. Pretty soon the column might see the muddy road
