The ship stationed next above me had been the light-armored (we called them tin-clad) steamer—Brilliant I will call her, although that was not her name. She was commanded by Acting Master Daniel Glenny, a native of Connecticut, a bright, active young officer, an excellent seaman, and a man who had always impressed me favorably.
As I was his senior officer and for the time commanding the division, Glenny always came on board the Benton to report when our ships met, which was almost daily, and I had often had him at dinner with me, and had come to know him intimately. A few weeks before this evening he had been ordered to a beat thirty miles farther up the river, not far from Skipwith’s Landing, and consequently I had not seen him for perhaps a month.
As I sat in the port smoking and dreaming of home, my orderly came up and said the officer of the deck reported that a tug was steaming up the river, and that she had signaled, “I wish to communicate.”
I at once went on deck, and by that time the tug was within hail.
“Tug ahoy!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“What tug is that? Don’t come any nearer at present!”
“This is the Rover, sir. I have special orders for you from Commodore Morris from New Orleans.”
“Very well; steam up under my quarter and come on board!”
The tug came near, and as she touched our overhang we lowered a side ladder, and an officer in uniform came on board and handed me an official document.