The Rifle Rangers. Reid Mayne

likely he has had it, or his aim would be more steady,” suggested an officer.

      “Oysters, too – only think of it!” said Clayley.

      “Howld your tongue, Clayley, or by my sowl I’ll charge down upon the town!”

      This came from Hennessy, upon whose imagination the contrast between champagne and oysters and the gritty pork and biscuit he had been feeding upon for several days past acted like a shock.

      “There again!” cried Twing, whose quick eye caught the blaze upon the parapet.

      “A shell, by the powers!” exclaimed Hennessy. “Let it dhrop first, or it may dhrop on ye,” he continued, as several officers were about to fling themselves on their faces.

      The bomb shot up with a hissing, hurtling sound. A little spark could be seen as it traced its graceful curves through the dark heavens.

      The report echoed from the walls, and at the same instant was heard a dull sound, as the shell buried itself in the sand-drift.

      It fell close to one of the picket sentinels, who was standing upon his post within a few paces of the group. The man appeared to be either asleep or stupefied, as he remained stock-still. Perhaps he had mistaken it for the ricochet of a round shot.

      “It’s big shooting for them to hit the hill!” exclaimed a young officer.

      The words had scarcely passed when a loud crash, like the bursting of a cannon, was heard under our feet; the ground opened like an earthquake, and, amidst the whistling of the fragments, the sand was dashed into our faces.

      A cloud of dust hung for a moment above the spot. The moon at this instant reappeared, and as the dust slowly settled away, the mutilated body of the soldier was seen upon the brow of the hill, at the distance of twenty paces from his post.

      A low cheer reached us from Concepcion, the fort whence the shell had been projected.

      Chagrined at the occurrence, and mortified that it had been caused by our imprudence, we were turning to leave the hill, when the “whish” of a rocket attracted our attention.

      It rose from the chaparral, about a quarter of a mile in rear of the camp, and, before it had reached its culminating point, an answering signal shot up from the Puerto Nuevo.

      At the same instant a horseman dashed out of the thicket, and headed his horse at the steep sand-hills. After three or four desperate plunges, the fiery mustang gained the crest of the ridge upon which lay the remains of the dead soldier.

      Here the rider, seeing our party, suddenly reined up and balanced for a moment in the stirrup, as if uncertain whether to advance or retreat.

      We, on the other hand, taking him for some officer of our own, and wondering who it could be galloping about at such an hour, stood silent and waiting.

      “By heavens, that’s a Mexican!” muttered Twing, as the ranchero dress became apparent under a brighter beam of the moon.

      Before anyone could reply, the strange horseman wheeled sharply to the left, and drawing a pistol, fired it into our midst. Then spurring his wild horse, he galloped past us into a deep defile of the hills.

      “You’re a set of Yankee fools!” he shouted back, as he reached the bottom of the dell.

      Half a dozen shots replied to the taunting speech; but the retreating object was beyond pistol range before our astonished party had recovered from their surprise at such an act of daring audacity.

      In a few minutes we could see both horse and rider near the walls of the city – a speck on the white plain; and shortly after we heard the grating hinges of the Puerto Nuevo, as the huge gate swung open to receive him. No one was hit by the shot of his pistol. Several could be heard gritting their teeth with mortification as we commenced descending the hill.

      “Did you know that voice, Captain?” whispered Clayley to me, as we returned to camp.

      “Yes.”

      “You think it was – ”

      “Dubrosc.”

      Chapter Eight.

      Major Blossom

      On reaching the camp I found a mounted orderly in front of my tent.

      “From the general,” said the soldier, touching his cap, and handing me a sealed note.

      The orderly, without waiting a reply, leaped into his saddle and rode off.

      I broke the seal with delight:

      “Sir, – You will report, with fifty men, to Major Blossom, at 4 a.m. to-morrow.

      “By order, – ”

      (Signed) “A.A.A. – G.

      “Captain Haller, commanding Co. Rifle Rangers.”

      “Old Bios, eh? Quartermaster scouting, I hope,” said Clayley, looking over the contents of the note.

      “Anything but the trenches; I am sick of them.”

      “Had it been anybody else but Blossom – fighting Daniels, for instance – we might have reckoned on a comfortable bit of duty; but the old whale can hardly climb into his saddle – it does look bad.”

      “I will not long remain in doubt. Order the sergeant to warn the men for four.”

      I walked through the camp in search of Blossom’s marquee, which I found in a grove of caoutchouc-trees, and out of range of the heaviest metal in Vera Cruz. The major himself was seated in a large Campeachy chair, that had been “borrowed” from some neighbouring rancho, and perhaps it was never so well filled as by its present occupant.

      It would be useless to attempt an elaborate description of Major Blossom. That would require an entire chapter.

      Perhaps the best that can be done to give the reader an idea of him is to say that he was a great, fat, red man, and known among his brother officers as “the swearing major”. If anyone in the army loved good living, it was Major Blossom; and if anyone hated hard living, that man was Major George Blossom. He hated Mexicans, too, and mosquitoes, and scorpions, and snakes, and sand-flies, and all enemies to his rest and comfort; and the manner in which he swore at these natural foes would have entitled him to a high commission in the celebrated army of Flanders.

      Major Blossom was a quarter-master in more senses than one, as he occupied more quarters than any two men in the army, not excepting the general-in-chief; and when many a braver man and better officer was cut down to “twenty-five pounds of baggage”, the private lumber of Major Blossom, including himself, occupied a string of wagons like a siege-train.

      As I entered the tent he was seated at supper. The viands before him were in striking contrast to the food upon which the army was then subsisting. There was no gravel gritting between the major’s teeth as he masticated mess-pork or mouldy biscuit. He found no débris of sand and small rocks at the bottom of his coffee-cup. No; quite the contrary.

      A dish of pickled salmon, a side of cold turkey, a plate of sliced tongue, with a fine Virginia ham, were the striking features of the major’s supper, while a handsome French coffee-urn, containing the essence of Mocha, simmered upon the table. Out of this the major from time to time replenished his silver cup. A bottle of eau-de-vie, that stood near his right hand, assisted him likewise in swallowing his ample ration.

      “Major Blossom, I presume?” said I.

      “My name,” ejaculated the major, between two swallows, so short and quick that the phrase sounded like a monosyllable.

      “I have received orders to report to you, sir.”

      “Ah! bad business! bad business!” exclaimed the major, qualifying the words with an energetic oath.

      “How, sir?”

      “Atrocious business! dangerous service! Can’t see why they sent me.”

      “I came, Major, to inquire the nature of the service, so that I may have my men in order for it.”

      “Dangerous