On looking at him, I found it was the very man I had seen in the ambulance and mistaken for Andy.
Before returning to camp on the evening train, I strolled along the wharf and watched the boats coming and going, lading and unlading their cargoes of army supplies. A company of colored soldiers was doing guard duty at one point along the wharf. They were evidently proud of their uniforms, and big with importance generally. By and by two officers came leisurely walking toward the wharf, one of whom I at once recognized as General Grant. He was smoking a cigar. As the two stood on the edge of the wharf, looking up the river and conversing in low tones, one of the colored guards came up behind them and tapped the general on the shoulder.
"Beg pardon, Gen'l," said the guard, giving the military salute, "but dere ain't no smokin' allowed on dis yere warf."
"Are those your orders?" asked the general, with a quiet smile.
"Yes, sah; dem's de orders."
Promptly taking his cigar from his lips, the general threw it into the water.
On my return to camp late in the evening, I found that the comrade with whom I was messing during Andy's absence had already "turned in" for the night. Leaning upon his elbow on his bunk, as I was stirring up the fire, in order to make a cup of coffee, he said,—
"There is your share of the dinner the New York people sent down to the Army of the Potomac."
"Where?" inquired I, looking around everywhere in all the corners of the tent. "I don't see it."
"Why, there on your knapsack in the corner."