possessed a great soul in a little body. All he needed to rise from
the ranks was an opportunity, and erelong it came. When, in the spring
of 1853, a battalion of the Scots Fusileer Guards was stationed at
Windsor, Bobby began to haunt the barracks. The butcher, his master,
came for him several times and took him home, only to find his place
vacant again the next day. He yielded at last to the inevitable, and
Bobby went his way without hindrance. A soldier he would be; a soldier
he was; and, as his True History relates, never failed to be first on
parade, and was always ready to forage. In 1854 he embarked on the
Simoon with his friends for the Crimea. The first day out, he came near
being thrown overboard as a vagrant, but being claimed by the entire
battalion, was allowed to stay.
[Illustration: BOBBY, THE DOG WHO WOULD BE A SOLDIER.]
He served at Malta, Scutari and Varna; was returned as missing from the
Alma, but reappeared in time for the wild battle storm of Balaklava.
Surviving this, he was heard of next at Inkermann, where he proved his
courage by chasing spent cannon balls over the bloody field. A medal
rewarded this feat, and was worn by him suspended from a collar of
Fusileer buttons linked together in a chain. He was present at several
other battles; and when, after the fall of Sebastopol, the battalion
returned to England, Bobby marched into London at its head--the
observed of all observers.
And now it might be supposed that he would rest on his laurels and grow
old in peace. Alas! he had escaped from Balaklava only to meet destiny
in London. In 1860 he was run over by a cart, and instantly killed.
Some say it was a butcher’s cart--which would imply a certain prosaic
justice in his fate--the profession he had scorned thus avenging itself.
The poodle Moustache enhanced the glories of the Consulate and Empire.
He was present at Marengo and at Jena; he once detected a spy; he saved
several lives; and finally, at Austerlitz, when the standard-bearer
of his regiment fell mortally wounded, he sprang forward, seized the
colors from the very grasp of the enemy, and bore them in triumph to
his fellow-soldiers. It was the deed of a hero, and its recompense
was such as heroes love. Maréchal Lannes received Moustache upon the
field of battle, praised him, thanked him in the name of all, and then,
bending down, fastened to his neck--the cross of the Legion of Honor!
Another dog of war was Pincher, who accompanied the Forty-second
Highlanders. In the days when Napoleon’s empire hung trembling in the
balance, this valiant terrier threw his own small influence into the
scale against him, and gallantly barked and capered at Quatre Bras
until wounded by a ball. Even then he refused to leave, and waited
on the field for his friends. Somewhat later he charged with the
Forty-second at Waterloo, came off unhurt from that tremendous field,
entered Paris with the allies, and in 1818 brought his laurels home
to Scotland. As in Bobby’s case, accident closed the life which the
chances of war had spared: while out rabbit-hunting, poor Pincher by
mistake was shot.
Then there was Dash, who served in the Royal African Corps, and made
it his special mission to examine the sentry rounds, and wake up any
sentinel who might be napping at his post. Many a drowsy soldier had
occasion to thank him, and he remained chief favorite with the corps
until his death.
Dogs have distinguished themselves in the navy as well as on land. Sir
John Carr tells the story of a Newfoundland on the English ship Nymph.
During an engagement with the French ship Cleopatra, the men at first
tried to keep their pet below. In vain; he escaped them, and ran up
on deck, barking furiously, with every sign of warlike rage. When the
Cleopatra struck her colors, he was among the foremost to board her,
and promenaded her deck with a proud and lofty air, as one who felt
that his share in the victory was not small.
Another Newfoundland, well named Victor, served on the Bellona, in the
battle of Copenhagen. So courageous and cheerful was his mien amidst
flying balls and smoke and roar of cannon, that the men could not
refrain from cheering him, even in the hottest of the action. After
peace was signed at Amiens and the troops were paid off, the men of the
Bellona had a farewell dinner on shore.
Honorably mindful of their four-footed comrade, seat and plate were
kept for Victor at the table. And there he sat, dignified and sedate,
among the veterans, sharing their roast beef and plum-pudding. They
drank his health, too, and doubtless he responded in his own fashion to
the toast. Finally, the bill was made out in his proper name, and--but
here the parallel with human “diners out” ceases. It was settled by an
adoring crowd of friends.
Another naval hero was Admiral Collingwood’s Bounce, who barked
stoutly through various battles, and who to undoubted courage joined
no inconsiderable amount of vanity. After his master was raised to
the peerage, Bounce put on all the airs which the sensible admiral
had dispensed with--behaving, said the latter, as though he, too, had
become a “right honorable.”
But the most delightful dog of war within my knowledge is little Toutou
of the French Zouaves. Once upon a time, when they were to leave France
for Genoa, an order was passed, forbidding dogs on shipboard. Fancy
the dismay of these pet-loving soldiers! What could be done? Each man,
as his name was called, had to pass into the ship by a narrow gangway,
with officers stationed at each end; and to conceal a dog under such
circumstances was clearly impossible. At this crisis some inventive
genius suggested unscrewing the drums, and concealing within them as
many as possible of their pets. No sooner thought of than done; and so
far, well. But now, like a thunderbolt out of a serene sky, came the
horrid order: “Let the regiment embark to the sound of fife and drum!”
There was no escape; the drums must be beat, and they were.
Simultaneously with the sound, and smothering it, arose a lengthened,
ear-piercing howl.
“What! Where!” cried the officers in consternation.
No sign of a dog anywhere, yet the louder the drums resounded the
louder swelled the canine chorus. At last a spaniel fell out of an
imperfectly screwed drum, and the stratagem was revealed. Then, amidst
roars of laughter, each drummer was obliged to advance alone, and beat
his instrument. If there was an answering howl, the drum was at once
unscrewed and its occupant ejected.
Only one dog ran the gauntlet successfully, and this was Toutou. Again
and again the drum was struck in which he lay concealed, but only its
own reverberations answered, and the drummer passed unsuspected. Once
fairly out at sea, his pet was released. He remained with the Third
Zouaves throughout the war; and when at its close they entered Paris,
who should be seen proudly marching at their head but Toutou, the dog
whom the drum-taps could not scare!
A dog-loving soldier in our own army was the Hungarian General
Asboth, a man of indomitable fire and courage. “Stilled, saddened,
but not bitter,” says Mrs. Frémont, “he held fast to his faith in the
progress of liberty. It was only natural that stray dogs should meet
with kindness from him.” Two special favorites, York and Cream, were
afterwards left by him to this lady’s care. Anything canine was dear to
his heart:
“Mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And cur of low degree,”
and it came to be well understood in camp that all stray dogs were
to be brought to the general. He was a noticeable figure, riding the
rounds in a suit of white linen and great cavalry boots, with a noisy
four-footed retinue at his heels.
From an eye-witness comes the following story. General Asboth returned
one day from a scouting expedition with a bullet through his shoulder;
and as there had been little fighting up to this time, the accident was
a great event. There happened to be in camp a young volunteer captain
of engineers on “detached duty.” Swelling with a pleasant sense of his
own importance, he thought proper at this crisis to call and offer his
services. The old general thanked him: “Mine own officers are very
good,” said he; “they do everythings for me. But, Captain, there is
a thing; if you would go through the camp and find my little dog-pup
which was stole, I would be so much obliged.”
This chance of distinction was not appreciated. “At last accounts,”
said my informant, “he had not yet begun to search for the ‘little
dog-pup,’ and the remarks he made in private were quite frightful to
hear.”
From Asboth to Frémont is a natural transition. They were friends and
comrades; they had in common the traits of courage and enthusiasm; they
had a like disdain of pettiness, and capacity for silent endurance; and
they had also, as you might expect in natures so sound at core, a great
affection for animals.
“For ourselves,” writes Mrs. Frémont, “dogs have always been part
of the family. I do not know, indeed, how boys can be happy without
them.... To the General some of ours were friends and companions,
especially a noble staghound, Thor. They walked together, they could
talk together; a sort of Indian sign-language belonging with old
experiences made Mr. Frémont proficient in sign and eye language, and
Thor knew that.
“Thor’s father, Thor the First, belonged to Charlotte Cushman, and for
years was part of the hunt in the Campagna around Rome. She brought her
dog home, and thinking death near her, gave it to a friend of mine who
had a beautiful Scotch deer-hound of pure breed, Sheila by name. Sheila
had been given to my friend’s brother-in-law, an officer on duty in
Arizona, at Yuma, by an Englishman who came there intending to hunt.
Fancy hounds coursing over that cactus!
“Our Thor was son to the traveled Sheila and Miss Cushman’s dog, who
had traveled also, but in civilized places. We took him with us to
Arizona, and there he died, of fever partly, partly of old age, for
he was eleven, and hounds give out young. He was nearly human in
intelligence--more than human in loyal attachment and undeviating
memory. He and Pluto, a thorough-bred coursing hound, were the two who
were longest with and closest to the whole family.
“Pluto was own cousin to Master Magrath, the famous hound. He was a
gentler nature every way than Thor, who was grand, dignified, without
attachments or associates except in his (our) own family; reserved, and
withdrawing himself from all attentions--even those of our friends.
Yet he had intense devotion to the General, to both my sons, and to
my daughter, and was very fond of me too, but in an indulgent sort of
way, because I belonged with the rest. He had sense and a faithful
heart. The latter gave him great pain; for to a dog you cannot explain
that a parting is not necessarily final; and it was saddening to see
his distress when the General would go away in Arizona. And when
after weeks or months he returned, there was always a general rush to
move small tables, etc., out of range, for Thor would go wild over
him, leaping up to lick his face, jumping wildly about him, putting
his great paws on the General’s shoulders, and rubbing his grizzled
muzzle against the General’s face, with cries almost human, and
painful, hysterical joy. Everything had to give way to him. He had
to be petted and quieted down like an excited baby; but even in his
sleep, afterwards, he would cry out and quiver all over, and the waking
would be a subdued repetition of the first joy. Thor’s name is never
carelessly mentioned even now, six years after his death.”
Mrs. Frémont has also commemorated, in her “Story of the Guard,” a
little terrier named Corporal, which belonged to the band of gallant
young men known as General Frémont’s Body-Guard. He was not pure-bred,
but that did not matter--sense and fidelity being happily independent
of birth. He had joined the Guards while they were in camp at St.
Louis, became a general favorite, and when they made their splendid
charge at Springfield, Mo., charged with them. The wild dash over, he
remained on the field all night with a wounded soldier, sped away for
help when morning dawned, coaxed and pulled until he persuaded a man to
follow, and thus succeeded in saving his friend’s life. In memory of
this brave deed the men bought him a collar, bright as red leather and
silver could make it, with the inscription:
CORPORAL,
THE BODY-GUARD’S DOG.
Springfield, Oct., 1861.
But although dogs are such good soldiers, they are no braver than
horses; while Pussy, their hereditary rival, keeps fairly abreast with
them in war as in peace. The Grenadiers’ Cat was contemporary with
Bobby, a courageous sharer in several hard-fought battles, and one
of the lamented slain at Balaklava. Another regimental cat was found
by Colonel Stuart Wortley, after the storming of the Malakoff, with
one foot pinned to the earth by a bayonet. He took her to a surgeon,
who dressed the wounded paw; and after her recovery, adopting her
preserver, she used to follow the colonel “all over the camp, with her
tail carried stiff in the air.”
Deer, and even lambs, have served in the army with credit, we are told.
One military deer “liked biscuit. But he always knew if a biscuit had
been breathed on, and if it had he would not touch it. He was very fond
of music, and used to march in front of the band. Sometimes a person
would come in between him and the band, and he would seem to be quite
cross about it.”
An unusual pet, which like the king never dies, is the goat of the
Royal Welsh Fusileers. When one goat ceases to be, another immediately
succeeds him. The incumbent now, alas! deceased, and whose portrait
is given here, was a fine white Billy from the royal herd at Windsor,
presented to the regiment by the queen. Apropos of his decease, an
officer wrote at some length in the London Graphic concerning these
famous goats. He quoted from the Military Antiquities of Grose, showing
them to be an ancient institution.
“The Royal Regiment of Welsh Fusileers has the privileged honor of
passing in review preceded by a goat with gilded horns and adorned with
ringlets of flowers; and although this may not come immediately under
the denomination of a reward of merit, yet the corps values itself much
on the ancientness of the custom.
[Illustration: THE DEER THAT MARCHED AHEAD.]
“Every first of March, being the anniversary of their tutular saint,
David, the officers give a splendid entertainment to their Welsh
brethren; and after the cloth is taken away a bumper is filled round to
H. R. H. the Prince of Wales, whose health is always drunk the first on
that day; the band playing the old tune of ‘The Noble Race of Shenkin,’
when a handsome drummer-boy, elegantly dressed, mounted on the goat,
richly caparisoned for the occasion, is led thrice round the table in
procession by the drum-major.
“It happened in 1775, in Boston, that the animal gave such a spring
from the floor that he dropped his rider upon the table, and then
bounding over the heads of some officers, he ran to the barracks with
all his trappings, to the no small joy of the garrison.”
The officer goes on to say that “the same goat which threw the drummer
accompanied the regiment into action at Bunker’s Hill, when the Welsh
Fusileers had all their officers except one placed _hors de combat_.
What became of the Bunker’s Hill goat, we do not know; nor can we
say how many successors he had between the years 1775 and 1844. In
the latter year the regimental goat died, and to compensate the
Twenty-third for its loss, Her Majesty presented the regiment with
two of the finest goats belonging to a flock--the gift of the Shah of
Persia--in Windsor Park. Since that date the queen has continued to
supply the Royal Welsh Fusileers with goats as occasion has required.
Billy--‘Her Majesty’s Goat,’ as he is styled--bears between his horns a
handsome silver shield or frontlet, surrounded by the Prince of Wales’
plumes and motto, with the inscription: ‘The gift of Her Majesty, Queen
Victoria, to the Royal Welsh Fusileers. A. D., MDCCCXLVI. _Duw a Cadwo
y Frenhines._’
[Illustration: THE WELSH FUSILEERS’ GOAT.]
“Billy always marches at the head of his battalion, alongside of the
drum-major.”
From this account, it would almost seem as though Billy had a share in
placing all his officers but one _hors de combat_ at Bunker’s Hill.
If such was the case, then he undoubtedly contributed to the American
victory on that occasion, and I do not see why a grateful nation should
not place his portrait in the Old South. Billy as a corner-stone of
American Independence--that is certainly a new side-light upon history!
Of all creatures, the most unfit for war appear to be birds; yet they,
too, have had their share of military vicissitudes and military fame.
Geese have shown a genuine vocation for soldiering, and often have been
seen waddling over a battle field with derisive composure, as though
it were no more than a quarrelsome barnyard. The Romans honored them
hardly less than their national eagle, ever after the geese of the
Capitol gave the alarm, and enabled them to drive back the Gauls. If
Rome was saved, to the geese was the glory!
A modern goose for twenty-three years accompanied an Uhlan regiment,
and yet another, Jacob by name, joined the Coldstream Guards in Canada.
He had been living in the usual barnyard retirement of fowls when one
evening, as he was returning home from a little trip outside, a fox
gave chase. All would soon have been over with Jacob had he not spied
a sentry near by and taken refuge between his feet. The fox was shot,
and henceforth, so long as a sentry was stationed at this place, the
grateful bird would join him on his beat.
Some two months later he repaid his preserver by saving the latter’s
life, when he in turn was attacked. Flying at the enemy, and beating
his wings in their faces, he so disconcerted them that his friend was
enabled to kill part and beat off the rest.
A gold collar, with suitable inscription, was his reward; and Jacob, in
high favor with all, accompanied the battalion to England. In London he
shared its barracks and had a sentry-go of his own, until one luckless
day he was run over by a cart and killed.
A great contrast to Jacob, morally, was the raven Ralph, which Thomas
Campbell saw in garrison at Chatham. He was one of those clever,
swaggering, disreputable, yet kind-hearted rascals who so often enlist;
who are always in hot water, and who, nevertheless, make many friends.
Ralph had a fluent tongue, and his “Attention, Corporal!” “Turn out,
Guard!” and “Sentry go!” often cheated the listeners. His wings had
been clipped, but in other respects he enjoyed all the freedom his own
reckless habits permitted; and when in an excess of curiosity he fell
over into a water-butt and was drowned, there was general lamentation,
as though he had been a very upright bird instead of an extremely
depraved one.
[Illustration: OLD ABE.]
A pleasanter story is that of the little bantam cock which perched on
the poop of Lord Rodney’s ship during a great battle with the French,
flapping his wings and crowing shrill defiance. It is a pleasure to
know that this tiny hero never figured on the dinner-table, but was
carefully provided for so long as he lived, by the admiral’s special
orders.
There has been no more famous pet in our own military history than Old
Abe, the eagle of the Eighth Wisconsin Regiment. From being at first
the pet of a company, he rose to be the pet of a regiment, and finally
of the nation, being supported at the public expense from the close of
the war until his death. He has been photographed and painted; he has
had his biography written; has been exhibited for the benefit of the
Sanitary Commission, and was an honored guest in Philadelphia at the
Centennial. More lucky in one respect than human celebrities--he was
never annoyed by requests for his autograph!
It is tame to say that in war he stood fire like a veteran; in truth,
he thrilled with a wild excitement in battle. Its smoke and roar and
carnage were his proper element. Borne always next to the regimental
colors, his perch was seamed with bullets; and why he was not, the
enemy’s sharpshooters could never tell. Sometimes he would soar high
above the fighting, and, poised in mid-air like one of Homer’s deities,
survey the fearful scene. He shared all the battles of the regiment,
and died full of years and honors.
Always beautiful and picturesque in his best estate, the horse is never
more so than in connection with war. Here, more than elsewhere, except
on the race-course, he has fame and a career. His interests no longer
conflict with those of his master; the honor of each reflects credit on
the other. As under different circumstances he might be an excellent
carriage-horse, so now he is an excellent soldier, and knows “the keen
delight of battle with his peers.”
Achilles had his Chestnut, his Dapple, and his Spry; Hector, too, had
his favorites--Whitefoot and Firefly; but far more famous and certainly
more authentic, is Bucephalus, the horse of Alexander. Plutarch relates
the whole beautiful story: how Philip of Macedon paid a great sum for
the horse, only to find it quite unmanageable. Just as he was ordering
its removal, the young Alexander, who had been watching the futile
efforts of the grooms, begged leave to try his hand. By a method
similar to Rarey’s--by gentleness, confidence and a firm hand--he won
Bucephalus. Henceforth, the two were fast friends and fellow-soldiers.
They fought together in Asia, accompanied part of the time at least by
Peritas, a great Molossian hound. Once Bucephalus was captured by a
party of barbarians, but they wisely surrendered him in time to avert
the king’s vengeance.
Wounded in the great battle with Porus, and worn out by age, this noble
horse died in India on the banks of the Hydaspes. His monument was
a city, built on the spot where he died, and named after him by his
master. The pair are commemorated in various ancient works of art, of
which the most notable is a great mosaic, now in Naples, representing
the battle of Issus.
Next to Bucephalus might be placed the black horse which Cæsar rode
during his campaigns in Gaul. It had curiously divided hoofs, whence
the augurs predicted good fortune to its rider; and, as though to
preserve that fortune for one alone, it would let no one mount but
Cæsar. Its after-fate is uncertain--except that the master of the world
was not ungrateful, and placed the statue of his good servant before
the temple of Venus in Rome. Possibly its history is summed up in the
story Suetonius tells--that Cæsar ordered the horses which had served
him in Gaul to be consecrated and maintained without labor the rest of
their lives. Among them, it is more than likely, was the nameless steed
of good augury.
A thousand years later we find the famous Cid in Spain riding Bavieca
to victory, and mindful of his horse’s welfare even in the hour of
his own death. “When ye bury Bavieca, dig deep!” says Ruy Diaz, “for
shameful thing were it that he should be eat by curs.”--“And this good
horse lived two years and a half after the death of his master, and
then he died also, having lived, according to the history, full forty
years.”
Yet another group of centuries, and what equine hero is this, standing
firm as a rock, small, but deep-chested, in color a rich chestnut,
and gazing at us with large velvety eyes?--who but Copenhagen, the
war-horse of Wellington!
A grandson of the great racer, Eclipse, he had wonderful powers of
endurance, and combined good temper with sagacity. The Duke rode
him for eighteen consecutive hours at Waterloo; and then, says he,
“thinking how bravely my old horse had carried me all day, I could
not help going up to his head, to tell him so by a few caresses. But,
hang me, if when I was giving him a slap of approbation on the hind
quarters, he did not fling out one of his hind legs with as much vigor
as if he had been in stable for a couple of days!”