at are you blaming them
for?" He looked at me and shook his fist. "Well, it wasn't!" and I
thought to myself if I were they I would push him in again. I then made up
my mind I had better run, but I was so convulsed with laughter that I
couldn't move. Hurriedly but cautiously climbing the slippery stairs, he
made his way straight for me. I was still laughing, so hearty that my eyes
were dimmed with tears! but I still puffed away at the big cigar. He
looked at me for a moment, then hitting the cigar knocked it overboard, at
the same time exclaiming, "You're too young to smoke. What you laughing
at? Why don't you salute me? Discipline! I'll teach you discipline,
confound you," at the same time boxing my ears. "You 'gorramed' little
cuss, why don't you salute me?" At the word "Gorrame" I recovered myself,
looked up and recognized my brother; he had been promoted since I saw him,
had raised a full beard and was in command of a regiment on his way to New
Orleans and had run into Fortress Monroe for orders and hoping to find me.
I was more than pleased to see him, but wouldn't salute him until he had
soundly cuffed my ears and threatened to throw me into the water.

When he was ready to depart he gave me a cigar and told me I could smoke
it after he had gone, but I didn't; just as he was getting into the
"cutter," I gave it to the Boatswain. I don't know, but I believe that
cigar was loaded.

Soon after this episode, peace was declared, and the orders came to
discharge all soldiers and send them to their respective homes, and on the
30th day of June, 1865, the boy who had worked so hard to get mustered
into the service of Uncle Sam was discharged and mustered out. Then I went
home to my dear, anxious family. I was not all covered with glory and I
did not feel that I had saved my country, but was satisfied that I had not
killed anyone; satisfied that I had furnished some little comfort and good
cheer to my comrades during their hardships, and above all that I had
learned the glorious distinction of being entitled to wear one of those
little bronze buttons made from captured cannons and symbolic of the
G. A. R.

[Illustration: Fac-simile of a descriptive list belonging to Mr. Ulmer.
The original is six times larger and was plowed up with other documents by
an old negro on the battle field in front of Petersburg, twelve years
after the war. While Mr. Ulmer was playing an engagement at the theatre in
Norfolk, the negro present