April 1st, 1865.
The Rebels are very restless in our front. Nearly every night this week they have threatened the line in front of the Third Division.
And now, that dark night has “spread her sable mantle o’er the earth,” and those who remain in camp have retired to snatch, perchance, a few hours sleep, perchance to be aroused before slumber has closed their eyelids, to face war’s rude alarms, I sit me down to ponder on the whereabouts and doings of General Grant during the past four days.
“Any news from the left?” meet whom you may, is the eager inquiry. “Nothing reliable,” the unvarying reply. Of course, the air is filled with rumors.
