It was very evident to the most pessimistic that the confederacy was on its last legs and that night when our boys were carrying rails to build breastworks, Billy Cook, the first sergeant of our company, who had gone all through the war without a scratch, made the remark that the “jig was about up with the Johnnies,” and the next day Bill fell pierced by a rebel bullet in the last fighting of the war. HEAPS OF PLUNDER. That night the boys had a great time going through the captured wagons. There was a “heap” of plunder in them. A paymaster’s trunk with upwards of $400,000 Confederate money was found and it was divided up among the men. One man secured Gen. Mahone’s grip with his commission as major general and other papers and dressed himself up in the coat, sash, etc., that had been worn by the distinguished Confederate. One of our boys secured a five-gallon jug of rebel commissary, and he and a comrade stuck a musket barrel through the handle and slinging it over their shoulders marched around among the exhausted soldiers and told them to “fall in for rations.” If anybody ever needed a little whiskey it was that very time and it was amusing to see them take their turns at the jug. No one was allowed to take any away, and in order to draw a ration the jug must be pushed up from the bottom and the nozzle tipped downward while a “swig” was taken. The men reveled in broiled ham, beef, bacon, onions, pickles, toasted hardtack, and other luxuries that were found in the wagons. LITTLE GRAY. There was pity mingled with our rejoicing that night for in many of the captured wagons were wounded Confederates. Poor fellows! Many of them lay with wounds several days old, the bandages dried up and dirty, some too weak to raise their heads, hungry and thirsty and needing so much nourishment and attention that we could not give them. It is at such a time that one is brought face to face with war without any of its gold plating. My sympathies were stirred as they had never been before as a little boy, scarcely 16 years old, was lifted out of a wagon. A handsome boy, notwithstanding his face was bronzed and dirty, and his cheeks sunken. He had beautiful dark, expressive eyes and looked up so appealingly into our faces as my comrade and I bent over him and asked what we could do for him. He, too, was a drummer boy and had been wounded two or three days before. We got our surgeon and had his wound dressed and gave him stimulants and a little food, but he was very weak, “all marched out,” he said, and was afraid that he would not see his old Carolina home again. We bathed his face and hands with cool water and his lips quivered and tears coursed down his cheeks as he faintly whispered of his widowed mother.