“We’ll win yet, then; won’t we, sir?”
“General Scott is there. You may be sure that he’ll find a way. A small force can hold San Antonio in check. It is acting strictly on the defensive.”
“If troops are sent for, I hope they’ll be the First Brigade,” Jerry blurted.
“Yes,” smiled Lieutenant Grant; “so do I.”
The regulation night’s rain was commencing to fall. Jerry hastened back for the stone barn and supper. That was rather a gloomy mess. They all somehow knew that the attack over at Contreras had failed; all wondered what Old Fuss and Feathers would do next; what regiments had been cut up, why the First Division had not been given a chance, and so forth, and so forth.
“Ah, weel, to-morrow’ll be a bludy day, I’m thinkin’, lads,” spoke Scotty. “The gen’ral’s no mon to gie oop. I vote for a gude sleep, mysel’, an’ I sartainly peety them who hae their bivouac in the starm. Gude sakes, leesten to the pour doon!”
The rain had merged into a terrific storm of thunder and lightning and gusty wind that lashed the barn with giants’ flails. Luckily the Fourth Regiment was snug within the dripping eaves; but what of the troops camped in the open, covered by only their blankets? They would be drenched! And what of the men on the battlefield? The wounded, and the weary!
While thinking and listening to the rain, and drowsily watching the smouldering campfires in the great barn, Jerry dozed off. He awakened to the sound of low voices. A group of non-commissioned officers was squatting near him, beside a fire, and talking guardedly among themselves—or seemed to be interested in a story. All through the barn the ranks were stretched under blankets upon the floor, snoring and gurgling. Jerry promptly rolled out and crept to the group. Sergeant Mulligan and Corporal Finerty were there from his company.
They stopped murmuring.
“Who’s that?”