Born in Ohio, he had been educated at West Point, had fought well in our unjust war against Mexico, had resigned in the piping times of peace that followed, had been a commercial failure, and was running an insignificant business as a farmer in Galena, Illinois, an obscure and unimportant citizen of that unimportant town, when the Civil War began. Eight years afterwards, he became President of the United States and served as such for eight years, doing his dogged best, but far less successful as a statesman than he had been as a soldier. He was a patriot and a good man. In the last years of his life, ruined financially by a wicked partner and tortured by the cancer that finally killed him, he wrote his famous memoirs, which netted his family a fortune after the grave had closed upon this great American. He ran a race with Death to write his life. And he won the grim race. The young second-lieutenant saluted and explained his mission. The long envelope, deeply dented with the mark of Wilkes Booth's dirty thumb and finger, had reached its destination at last. Grant took it, opened it, read it without even a slight change of expression, though it contained not only orders for the future, but Lincoln's warm-hearted thanks for the past and the news of his own promotion to be major-general. Not only Tom, but every member of his staff was watching him. The saturnine face told no one anything. The little he said at the moment was said to Tom. "The President tells me he would like to have you given a glimpse of the front. Have you had any experience?" "No, sir." "When were you commissioned?" "A week ago, sir." "Are all the Eastern boys of your age in the army?" "They would like to be, sir." "Well," said Grant, with a kindly smile, "perhaps a little experience at the front may make up for the years you lack. Send him to General Mitchell, Captain," he added, turning to a spruce aide who rose from his packing-box seat to acknowledge the command. "Pray come with me, Mr. Strong," said the captain. Tom saluted, turned, and followed his guide. A backward glance showed him the general, his eyes now bent sternly upon Lincoln's letter, his staff eyeing him, a group of quiet, silent figures. And that was all that Tom saw, at that time, of the greatest general of our Civil War. CHAPTER V INSIDE THE CONFEDERATE LINES--"SAIREY" WARNS TOM--OLD MAN TOMBLIN'S "SETTLEMINT"--STEALING A LOCOMOTIVE--WILKES BOOTH GIVES THE ALARM--A WILD DASH FOR THE UNION LINES.