"I am Lieutenant Jefferson Davis, of General Atcheson's staff, and may have a good word to say regarding your efficiency some time." The other wiped his clay-bespattered fingers on his dingy Jean pants, and gripped the offered hand, appearing homelier than ever because of a smear of blood on one cheek.
"Thank ye, sir," he answered good humoredly.

"I'm Abe Lincoln, of Salem, Illinoy, an' I ain't got but just one job right now--that's ter make them boys tote this stuff, an' I reckon they're goin' ter do it." With the exchange of another word or two they parted, and not until thirty years later did I realize what that chance meeting meant, there in the clay mud of Yellow Banks, at the edge of the Indian wilderness, when Abraham Lincoln, of Illinois, and Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, stood in comradeship with clasped hands.
I recognized the majority of those disembarking passengers who passed by me within a few feet, but saw nothing of Kirby, the deputy sheriff, or caught any glimpse of their prisoners.

The only conclusion was that they still remained on board.

I was not at all surprised at this, as their intention undoubtedly was to continue with the steamer, and return south the moment the cargo of commissary and quartermaster's stores had been discharged.

Neither had any interest in the war, and there was nothing ashore to attract them which could not be comfortably viewed from the upper deck.