I think his simplicity his most remarkable trait.  You should see him as he rides through the army, an erect figure, with his clothes all angular and awry, and an expanse of white sock showing above his low shoes.  You can hear his name running from file to file; and some times the new regiments can’t resist cheering.  He generally says to the Colonel:  —­“Stop that noise, sir.  Don’t like it.”

On our march to the sea, if the orders were ever given to turn northward, “the boys” would get very much depressed.  One moonlight night I was walking my horse close to the General’s over the pine needles, when we overheard this conversation between two soldiers:—­ “Say, John,” said one, “I guess Uncle Billy don’t know our corps is goin’ north.”

“I wonder if he does,’” said John.  “If I could only get a sight of them white socks, I’d know it was all right.”

The General rode past without a word, but I heard him telling the story to Mower the next day.

I can find little if any change in his manner since I knew him first.  He is brusque, but kindly, and he has the same comradeship with officers and men—­and even the negroes who flock to our army.  But few dare to take advantage of it, and they never do so twice.  I have been very near to him, and have tried not to worry him or ask many foolish questions.  Sometimes on the march he will beckon me to close up to him, and we have a conversation something on this order:—­ “There’s Kenesaw, Brice.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pointing with his arm.

“Went beyond lines there with small party.  Rebel battery on summit.  Had to git.  Fired on.  Next day I thought Rebels would leave in the night.  Got up before daylight, fixed telescope on stand, and waited.  Watched top of Kenesaw.  No Rebel.  Saw one blue man creep up, very cautious, looked around, waved his hat.  Rebels gone.  Thought so.”

This gives you but a faint idea of the vividness of his talk.  When we make a halt for any time, the general officers and their staffs flock to headquarters to listen to his stories.  When anything goes wrong, his perception of it is like a lightning flash,—­and he acts as quickly.

By the way, I have just found the letter he wrote me, offering this staff position.  Please keep it carefully, as it is something I shall value all my life.

   Gaylesville, Alabama, October 25, 1864.

   Major Stephen A. Brice: 

Dear Sir,—­The world goes on, and wicked men sound asleep.  Davis has sworn to destroy my army, and Beauregard has come to do the work,—­so if you expect to share in our calamity, come down.  I offer you this last chance for staff duty, and hope you have had enough in the field.  I do not wish to hurry you, but you can’t get aboard a ship at sea.  So if you want to make the trip, come to Chattanooga and take your chances of meeting me.

Yours truly,