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.”

“............