General Grant and I have been on friendly terms for a long while. He likes to talk about his farming days in Missouri. He used to haul wood ten or twelve miles into St. Louis. $10.00 a cord. He is proud of his log cabin, which he designed and built, a two-story.
At his HQ we sat under a tent flap and talked. He unfolded a letter from his wife and showed me his baby’s smudge print. Wife and son are two thousand miles away.
I talked about my courtship days, and Grant said:
“...Let me tell you how I got hitched. We were buggy riding and had to cross a flooded creek. As the buggy sank into the water and the water poured in, she yelled: ‘I’m gonna hold onto you no matter what happens.’ After we crossed I asked her: ‘Would you like to cling to me the rest of your life?’ Or something like that.”
We got to talking horses. I described some of my nags and some of my faithfuls. He talked about his West Point horses, thoroughbreds... Wilma could out-hurdle any other...six foot six inches...then he talked about Mexican horses and Mexican saddles...you should see the one I got as booty...silver ornaments...
It was good to get away from Washington.
When I reviewed Grant’s troops, I rode his Cincinnati, a huge bay. The soldiers are always pleased by my visits. I remove my hat and bow. Men clamor around me, huzzahing. They stroke Cincinnati. They kiss my hand: these are the blacks who are willing to fight for the union. Grant singled out a corps: recently, they had captured six cannons, under fire all the time.
Cincinnati whuffs and bobs his splendid head, as Grant and I ride along, a woodland around us.
After lunch in his tent, he gave me a lieutenant’s diary, written at Shiloh.