Into Mexico with General Scott / When attached to the Fourth United States Infantry, Division of Major-General William J. Worth, Corps of the famous Major-General Winfield Scott, known as Old Fuss and Feathers, campaign of 1847, lad Jerry Cameron marched and fought beside Second Lieutenant U. S. Grant all the way from Cera Cruz to the City of Mexico, where six thousand American soldiers planted the Stars and Stripes in the midst of one hundred and fifty thousand amazed people

by Edwin L. Sabin

It was a ladder, seen through the doorway of a closet in one corner, and extending almost straight up into the belfry.

“Never take a dare. You watch me,” said Jerry.

“I’ll hold your drum.”

“No, you won’t!”

Lugging the drum slung behind him, Jerry was out of breath when he emerged into the dusty belfry, beside the great copper bell. But he was glad that he had come. What a view! He could see the road, in the east, connecting with the plateau that they had crossed from El Pinal; he could see the top of Pizarro Peak at Perote; and he didn’t know but that he could see the dust of the Second Brigade and the Quitman Mohawks coming on one day’s march late.

He crept around the bell, and could see the brigade camp below. The men, like specks, were washing up and mending clothes and whitening belts in the corral and in the plaza where the artillery companies had been quartered. He could see the specks of pickets, posted at the edge of town. There in the west were snowy Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl, sentinels over the Halls of Montezuma. And there, on this side of them, was the city of Puebla of the Angels, sparkling in the afternoon sun.

Then, as his eyes traveled, they lighted upon a real dust cloud, slightly in the north, between Amozoc and Puebla.

The cloud was advancing; yes, and rapidly. Whew! Cavalry, sure as shooting. Mexican lancers! No other horsemen could be expected from that direction, not in such a mass. The outpost guards had not seen them yet.

Like lightning Jerry twitched his drumsticks from his belt, jerked his drum to the fore, and beat the long roll. R-r-r-r-r-r-r! R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r! And R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r! The stunning noise in the hollow belfry deafened him. It must have fallen like a thunder clap upon the ears of the camp. As he plied the drumsticks with his two hands he saw that the grouped specks had frozen stone still, as if staring about to locate the alarm.

He didn’t delay. Down he slid, down the ladder, never caring how he landed—and he landed plump into somebody’s arms. They were Lieutenant McClellan’s.