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[350] ears, two had skinned up the boxes on the mule's back, and the next moment some sharpshooter might, and certainly would, pick us off forever. We couldn't run; the ammunition was pressingly needed. It was too hot to remain there, and go we could not. Again my comrade whipped, both shouted, and I pulled and tugged till, suddenly, halter and bridle both slipped over the mule's head. Free from restraint, he was disposed to run, and run he did-but fortunately in the right direction. We, too, ran faster, possibly, than did the mule. He was caught in the right place, unloaded and tied to a bush, where, in a few hours, when the line fell back, he was left standing as an outpost, being probably seized upon and eaten by the hungry soldiers of Pemberton's army. I have often wondered since then how that mule was accounted for at Washington. Was he reported stolen, captured, or simply

Died on the field of honor?

During the long weeks of the siege, the common soldiers saw Grant daily; not exhibiting himself for the sake of being cheered and cheaply glorified, but patiently examining the little details necessary to the safety and comfort of the army. Near my regiment was an Ohio battery of brass six-pounders, and it was not uncommon to see the commander walk over and aim the guns himself or watch with intense interest the effect of some particular shot. His.own tents, though not as exposed, were as close to the lines of the enemy as were the huts of the soldiers on duty. He was commanding his troops from the front, not from the rear. He lived in his army, and was himself not only its director, but a part of it. He was a private soldier in command, a corporal in the uniform of a general. Enormous quantities of ammunition had been furnished the batteries, and Grant proposed celebrating the anniversary of the nation by pouring hot lead into Vicksburg. Pemberton certainly expected as much, and offered to surrender in time. What days those were to us, the common soldiers of the army, as we lay in the trenches of Vicksburg! It was here that I got my first commission, and, in a very few days, the first order I had the honor of reading to a regiment of bronzed soldiers in line contained the words:

Vicksburg has capitulated. At ten to-morrow morning, July 4th, 1863, the garrison, thirty thousand in number, will march outside the works and surrender their arms.

There was a shout, a throwing up of hats; then came a silence. “Not true, not true; too good, too good!” cried many. But the

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