There was a fine steamboat lying at the wharf, and I had hardly stepped
ashore before they told me she was President Lincoln's. I read the name
on her--the 'River Queen'. Yes, the President is here, too, with his wife
and family.

There are many fellows here with whom I was brought up in Boston. I am
living with Jack Hancock, whom you will remember well. He is a captain
now, and has a beard.

But I must go on with my story. I went straight to General Grant's
headquarters,--just a plain, rough slat house such as a contractor might
build for a temporary residence. Only the high flagstaff and the Stars
and Stripes distinguish it from many others of the same kind. A group of
officers stood chatting outside of it, and they told me that the General
had walked over to get his mail. He is just as unassuming and democratic
as "my general." General Rankin took me into the office, a rude room, and
we sat down at the long table there. Presently the door opened, and a man
came in with a slouch hat on and his coat unbuttoned. He was smoking a
cigar. We rose to our feet, and I saluted.

It was the general-in-chief. He stared at me, but said nothing.

"General, this is Major Brice of General Sherman's staff. He has brought
despatches from Goldsboro," said Rankin.

He nodded, took off his hat and laid it on the table, and reached out for
the despatches. While reading them he did not move, except to light
another cigar. I am getting hardened to unrealities,--perhaps I should
say marvels, now. Our country abounds in them. It did not seem so strange
that this silent General with the baggy trousers was the man who had