“The general of the army has no blanket,” Ernest and Jim heard him proclaim loudly, as he rode along with two or three of the officers. “I had a very good one; it might shelter me from this pitiless storm, but some scoundrel stole it. I am told,” he added, “that evilly disposed persons have reported that I am going to march you clear to the Redlands border of Texas. This is false. I am going to march you up into the Brazos bottoms to a position where you can whip the enemy ten to one, and where we can get an abundant supply of corn.”
It rained hard all that night—and a miserable night it was. Several beeves were driven in and killed for food. The army huddled around huge fires, cooking slices of beef and trying to dry their feet. The ground was too wet to lie on. General Houston sat on his saddle, his feet on a block of wood, and a borrowed blanket over his shoulders. Somebody at one of the messes started a song, in a pleasant tenor voice.
Will you come to the bow’r I have shaded for you?
Your bed shall be roses bespangled with dew.
Will you, will you, will you, will you,
Come to the bow’r?
That was the way it began. The words drifted from fire to fire, in a plaintive melody. Jim, squatted beside Ernest—both of them soaked—grunted.
“That’s surely a fine song,” he said. “Talk about a bed of roses!”
“I’ll take a good hard plank for mine,” quoth Ernest. “Without dew. Am wet enough already!”