union together, and never let it succumb to meanness or fixed ideas. And here," the White House staff and any average citizens on hand would reflect, "is one who is larger than we, yet one of us."
At which juncture Clay might pop in, tousled from the night before. (No matter what he had been up to, Fillmore always arrived for business looking cleaner than the Board of Health.) Fillmore would wink at Clay's stout, scuffed Kentucky brogans and lighten the moment with a remark about "feet of Clay," which Clay himself-being possessed of a firm yet unoppressive sense of his own authenticity--would take in good spirits.
Another thing about Fillmore. He never secretly taped his telephone conversations.
The morning of the ninth of April, 1865, dawned beautifully. General Meade was up with the first streaks of crimson in the eastern sky. General Hooker and General Burnside were up, and had breakfasted, by a quarter after eight. The day continued beautiful. It drew on toward eleven o'clock. General Ulysses S. Grant was still not up. He was asleep in his famous old navy hammock, swung high above the floor of his headquarters' bedroom. Headquarters was distressingly disarranged: papers were strewn on the floor; confidential notes from spies scurried here and there in the breeze from an open window; the dregs of an overturned bottle of wine flowed pinkly across an important military map.
Corporal Shultz, of the Sixty-fifth Ohio Volunteer Infantry, aide to General Grant, came into the outer room, looked around him, and sighed. He entered the bedroom and shook the General's hammock roughly. General Ulysses S. Grant opened one eye.