tossing heads and of foam-whitened necks and shoulders. Here and there
gleamed red, distended nostrils and straining eyes. Bending above was
another wall, a wall of dusty blue coats, of grim faces, and of
dust-powdered hats. Bristling above all was a threatening crest of
waving blades.
What would happen when the lines met? Almost before the query was
thought there came the answer. With an earth-jarring crash they came
together. The lines wavered back from the shock of impact and then the
whole struggle appeared to Pasha to centre about him. Of course this was
not so. But it was a fact that the most conspicuous figure in either
line had been that of the cream-white charger in the very centre of the
Black Horse regiment.
For one confused moment Pasha heard about his ears the whistle and clash
of sabres, the spiteful crackle of small arms, the snorting of horses,
and the cries of men. For an instant he was wedged tightly in the
frenzied mass, and then, by one desperate leap, such as he had learned
on the hunting field, he shook himself clear.
Not until some minutes later did Pasha notice that the stirrups were
dangling empty and that the bridle-rein hung loose on his neck. Then he
knew that at last he was free from "Mars" Clayton. At the same time he
felt himself seized by an overpowering dread. While conscious of a
guiding hand on the reins Pasha had abandoned himself to the fierce joy
of the charge. But now, finding himself riderless in the midst of a
horrid din, he knew not what to do, nor which way to turn. His only
impulse was to escape. But where? Lifting high his fine head and
snorting with terror he rushed about, first this way and then that,
frantically seeking a way out of this fog-filled field of dreadful
pandemonium. Now he swerved in his course to avoid a charging squad, now
he was turned aside by prone objects at sight of which he snorted
fearfully. Although the blades still rang and the carbines still spoke,
there were no more to be seen either lines or order. Here and there in
the dust-clouds scurried horses, some with riders and some without, by
twos, by fours, or in squads of twenty or more. The sound of shooting
and slashing and shouting filled the air.
To Pasha it seemed an eternity that he had been tearing about the field
when he shied at the figure of a man sitting on the ground. Pasha was
about to wheel and dash away when the man called to him. Surely the
tones were familiar. With wide-open, sniffing nostrils and trembling
knees, Pasha stopped and looked hard at the man on the ground.
"Pasha! Pasha!" the man called weakly. The voice sounded like that of
Mr. Dave.
"Come, boy! Come, boy!" said the man in a coaxing tone, which recalled
to Pasha the lessons he had learned at Gray Oaks years before. Still
Pasha sniffed and hesitated.
"Come here, Pasha, old fellow. For God's sake, come here!"
There was no resisting this appeal. Step by step Pasha went nearer. He
continued to tremble, for this man on the ground, although his voice was
that of Mr. Dave, looked much different from the one who had taught him
tricks. Besides, there was about him the scent of fresh blood. Pasha
could see the stain of it on his blue trousers.
"Come, boy. Come, Pasha," insisted the man on the ground, holding out an
encouraging hand. Slowly Pasha obeyed until he could sniff the man's
fingers. Another step and the man was smoothing his nose, still speaking
gently and coaxingly in a faint voice. In the end Pasha was assured that
the man was really the Mr. Dave of old, and glad enough Pasha was to
know it.
"Now, Pasha," said Mr. Dave, "we'll see if you've forgotten your tricks,
and may the good Lord grant you haven't. Down, sir! Kneel, Pasha,
kneel!"
[Illustration: "Come, boy. Come, Pasha," insisted the man on the
ground.]
It had been a long time since Pasha had been asked to do this, a very
long time; but here was Mr. Dave asking him, in just the same tone as of
old, and in just the same way. So Pasha, forgetting his terror under the
soothing spell of Mr. Dave's voice, forgetting the fearful sights and
sounds about him, remembering only that here was the Mr. Dave whom he
loved, asking him to do his old trick--well, Pasha knelt.
"Easy now, boy; steady!" Pasha heard him say. Mr. Dave was dragging
himself along the ground to Pasha's side. "Steady now, Pasha; steady,
boy!" He felt Mr. Dave's hand on the pommel. "So-o-o, boy; so-o-o-o!"
Slowly, oh, so slowly, he felt Mr. Dave crawling into the saddle, and
although Pasha's knees ached from the unfamiliar strain, he stirred not
a muscle until he got the command, "Up, Pasha, up!"
Then, with a trusted hand on the bridle-rein, Pasha joyfully bounded
away through the fog, until the battle-field was left behind. Of the
long ride that ensued only Pasha knows, for Mr. Dave kept his seat in
the saddle more by force of muscular habit than anything else. A man who
has learned to sleep on horseback does not easily fall off, even though
he has not the full command of his senses. Only for the first hour or so
did Pasha's rider do much toward guiding their course. In
hunting-horses, however, the sense of direction is strong. Pasha had
it--especially for one point of the compass. This point was south. So,
unknowing of the possible peril into which he might be taking his rider,
south he went. How Pasha ever did it, as I have said, only Pasha knows;
but in the end he struck the Richmond Pike.
[Illustration: Mr. Dave kept his seat in the saddle more by force of
muscular habit than anything else.]
It was a pleading whinny which aroused Miss Lou at early daybreak.
Under her window she saw Pasha, and on his back a limp figure in a blue,
dust-covered, dark-stained uniform. And that was how Pasha's cavalry
career came to an end. That one fierce charge was his last.
* * * * *
In the Washington home of a certain Maine Congressman you may see, hung
in a place of honor and lavishly framed, the picture of a horse. It is
very creditably done in oils, is this picture. It is of a cream-white
horse, with an arched neck, clean, slim legs, and a splendid flowing
tail.
Should you have any favors of state to ask of this Maine Congressman, it
would be the wise thing, before stating your request, to say something
nice about the horse in the picture. Then the Congressman will probably
say, looking fondly at the picture: "I must tell Lou--er--my wife, you
know, what you have said. Yes, that was Pasha. He saved my neck at
Brandy Station. He was one-half Arab, Pasha was, and the other half,
sir, was human."