The next move in the great game of war between Grant and Lee was Cold Harbor--a name indelibly impressed upon every survivor of the campaign. It recalls two weeks of hunger, thirst, hardships that language is inadequate to describe; unsuccessful assaults and losses, that tell the story of most desperate fighting. It was Greek against Greek, veteran against veteran. No one seems to know why the place was so named for, as Pat. Devereaux of our company expressed it, “’twas no harbor at all, and divil a drop of water to make ’wan wid.” Grant considered it an important point, however, and tried to get there ahead of Lee, but as a “comrade in gray” expressed it, “Uncle Robert wasn’t caught napping anywhere.” Our corps reached there at a little past 6 the morning of June 2, after an all-night march with the heat and dust oppressive beyond description. An attack had been ordered for the morning, but was postponed because of the exhausted condition of the troops. A DESPERATE WISH. If I tell you that I heard many wish that they might receive a wound in the impending fight you may think me “yarning,” but it is true nevertheless, for the men were so utterly worn out that they would have willingly risked a wound for the sake of the rest it would give them. The troops were placed in position during the day and all instructions issued to the various commanders preparatory for the assault that was to take place at 4.30 the morning of the 3d. A BUGLER’S GRIEF. Pardon a little digression while I tell you about a bugler who was a bugler from “way back.” There were hundreds and thousands of buglers in the army, but I never heard one who could touch a note to George Gracey of our regiment. One blast of his trumpet would indicate the location of the 2d New York, among a score of regiments. There was music in every sound he made, and I have seen officers of other commands stop and listen when the little Swiss was trumpeting the calls. At Cold Harbor he was selected by Gen. Hancock to sound the charge which sent 20,000 of his men into action, because his bugle could be heard clearer and farther than others. It was a proud moment for our little bugler, but the story is not complete without telling you how the tender-hearted fellow sat down and wept like a child, when, a few moments later, he saw the ghastly procession of mangled and bleeding comrades coming back. He was afterwards bugler for Gen. Nelson A. Miles at division headquarters and served until the close of the war. For many years he was bugler at the Bath Soldier’s Home. I last saw him at a reunion of our regiment at Frankfort, N. Y., and, although he was bent over with the weight of three score years and ten, he had not forgotten his cunning with the bugle and when he alighted from an early morning train and let off a few blasts from his old war-scarred trumpet the citizens of that peaceful Mohawk village must have thought that Gabriel had come. TAPS!