almost on the identical spot where four years before I had camped
my company of three months' volunteers. With what experiences of
march and battle were those four years filled! For three of these
years Gulnare had been my constant companion. With me she had
shared my tent, and not rarely my rations, for in appetite she was
truly human, and my steward always counted her as one of our 'mess.'
Twice had she been wounded--once at Fredericksburg, through the
thigh; and once at Cold Harbor, where a piece of shell tore away a
part of her scalp. So completely did it stun her, that for some
moments I thought her dead, but to my great joy she shortly
recovered her senses. I had the wound carefully dressed by our
brigade surgeon, from whose care she came in a month with the edges
of the wound so nicely united that the eye could with difficulty
detect the scar. This night, as usual, she lay at my side, her head
almost touching mine. Never before, unless when on a raid and in
face of the enemy, had I seen her so uneasy. Her movements during
the night compelled wakefulness on my part. The sky was cloudless,
and in the dim light I lay and watched her. Now she would stretch
herself at full length, and rub her head on the ground. Then she
would start up, and, sitting on her haunches, like a dog, lift one
foreleg and paw her neck and ears. Anon she would rise to her feet
and shake herself, walk off a few rods, return and lie down again
by my side. I did not know what to make of it, unless the
excitement of the day had been too much for her sensitive nerves. I
spoke to her kindly and petted her. In response she would rub her
nose against me, and lick my hand with her tongue--a peculiar habit
of hers--like a dog. As I was passing my hand over her head, I
discovered that it was hot, and the thought of the old wound
flashed into my mind, with a momentary fear that something might be
wrong about her brain, but after thinking it over I dismissed it as
incredible. Still I was alarmed. I knew that something was amiss,
and I rejoiced at the thought that I should soon be at home where
she could have quiet, and, if need be, the best of nursing. At
length the morning dawned, and the mare and I took our last meal
together on Southern soil--the last we ever took together. The
brigade was formed in line for the last time, and as I rode down
the front to review the boys she moved with all her old battle
grace and power. Only now and then, by a shake of the head, was I
reminded of her actions during the night. I said a few words of
farewell to the men whom I had led so often to battle, with whom I
had shared perils not a few, and by whom, as I had reason to think,
I was loved, and then gave, with a voice slightly unsteady, the
last order they would ever receive from me: 'Brigade, Attention,
Ready to break ranks, _Break Ranks_.' The order was obeyed.
But ere they scattered, moved by a common impulse, they gave first
three cheers for me, and then, with the same heartiness and even
more power, three cheers for Gulnare. And she, standing there,
looking with her bright, cheerful countenance full at the men,
pawing with her forefeet, alternately, the ground, seemed to
understand the compliment; for no sooner had the cheering died away
than she arched her neck to its proudest curve, lifted her thin,
delicate head into the air, and gave a short, joyful neigh.
"My arrangements for transporting her had been made by a friend the
day before. A large, roomy car had been secured, its floor strewn
with bright clean straw, a bucket and a bag of oats provided, and
everything done for her comfort. The car was to be attached to the
through express, in consideration of fifty dollars extra, which I
gladly paid, because of the greater rapidity with which it enabled
me to make my journey. As the brigade broke up into groups, I
glanced at my watch and saw that I had barely time to reach the
cars before they started. I shook the reins upon her neck, and with
a plunge, startled at the energy of my signal, away she flew. What
a stride she had! What an elastic spring! She touched and left the
earth as if her limbs were of spiral wire. When I reached the car
my friend was standing in front of it, the gang-plank was ready, I
leaped from the saddle, and, running up the plank into the car,
whistled to her; and she, timid and hesitating, yet unwilling to be
separated from me, crept slowly and cautiously up the steep incline
and stood beside me. Inside I found a complete suit of flannel
clothes with a blanket and, better than all, a lunch-basket. My
friend explained that he had bought the clothes as he came down to
the depot, thinking, as he said, 'that they would be much better
than your regimentals,' and suggested that I doff the one and don
the other. To this I assented the more readily as I reflected that
I would have to pass one night at least in the car, with no better
bed than the straw under my feet. I had barely time to undress
before the cars were coupled and started. I tossed the clothes to
my friend with the injunction to pack them in my trunk and express
them on to me, and waved him my adieu. I arrayed myself in the
nice, cool flannel and looked around. The thoughtfulness of my
friend had anticipated every want. An old cane-seated chair stood
in one corner. The lunch-basket was large and well supplied. Amid
the oats I found a dozen oranges, some bananas, and a package of
real Havana cigars. How I called down blessings on his thoughtful
head as I took the chair and, lighting one of the fine-flavored
_figaros_, gazed out on the fields past which we were gliding,
yet wet with morning dew. As I sat dreamily admiring the beauty
before me, Gulnare came and, resting her head upon my shoulder,
seemed to share my mood. As I stroked her fine-haired, satin-like
nose, recollection quickened and memories of our companionship in
perils thronged into my mind. I rode again that midnight ride to
Knoxville, when Burnside lay intrenched, desperately holding his
own, waiting for news from Chattanooga of which I was the bearer,
chosen by Grant himself because of the reputation of my mare. What
riding that was! We started, ten riders of us in all, each with the
same message. I parted company the first hour out with all save
one, an iron-gray stallion of Messenger blood. Jack Murdock rode
him, who learned his horsemanship from buffalo and Indian hunting
on the plains--not a bad school to graduate from. Ten miles out of
Knoxville the gray, his flanks dripping with Wood, plunged up
abreast of the mare's shoulders and fell dead; and Gulnare and I
passed through the lines alone. _I had ridden the terrible race
without whip or spur._ With what scenes of blood and flight she
would ever he associated! And then I thought of home, unvisited for
four long years--that home I left a stripling, but to which I was
returning a bronzed and brawny man. I thought of mother and
Bob--how they would admire her!--of old Ben, the family groom, and
of that one who shall be nameless, whose picture I had so often
shown to Gulnare as the likeness of her future mistress; had they
not all heard of her, my beautiful mare, she who came to me from
the smoke and whirlwind, my battle-gift? How they would pat her
soft, smooth sides, and tie her mane with ribbons, and feed her
with all sweet things from open and caressing palm! And then I
thought of one who might come after her to bear her name and repeat
at least some portion of her beauty--a horse honored and renowned
the country through, because of the transmission of the mother's
fame.
"About three o'clock in the afternoon a change came over Gulnare. I
had fallen asleep upon the straw, and she had come and awakened me
with a touch of her nose. The moment I started up I saw that
something was the matter. Her eyes were dull and heavy. Never
before had I seen the light go out of them. The rocking of the car
as it went jumping and vibrating along seemed to irritate the car.
Touching it, I found that the skin over the brain was hot as fire.
Her breathing grew rapidly louder and louder. Each breath was drawn
with a kind of gasping effort. The lids with their silken fringe
drooped wearily over the lustreless eyes. The head sank lower and
lower, until the nose almost touched the floor. The ears, naturally
so lively and erect, hung limp and widely apart. The body was cold
and senseless. A pinch elicited no motion. Even my voice was at
last unheeded. To word and touch there came, for the first time in
all our intercourse, no response. I knew as the symptoms spread
what was the matter. The signs bore all one way. She was in the
first stages of phrenitis, or inflammation of the brain. In other
words, _my beautiful mare was going mad._
"I was well versed in the anatomy of the horse. Loving horses from
my very childhood, there was little in veterinary practice with
which I was not familiar. Instinctively, as soon as the symptoms
had developed themselves, and I saw under what frightful disorder
Gulnare was laboring, I put my hand into my pocket for my knife, in
order to open a vein. _There was no knife there._ Friends, I
have met with many surprises. More than once in battle and scout
have I been nigh death; but never did my blood desert my veins and
settle so around the heart, never did such a sickening sensation
possess me, as when, standing in that car with my beautiful mare
before me marked with those horrible symptoms, I made that
discovery. My knife, my sword, my pistols even, were with my suit
in the care of my friend, two hundred miles away. Hastily, and with
trembling fingers, I searched my clothes, the lunch-basket, my
linen; not even a pin could I find. I shoved open the sliding door,
and swung my hat and shouted, hoping to attract some brakeman's
attention. The train was thundering along at full speed, and none
saw or heard me. I knew her stupor would not last long. A slight
quivering of the lip, an occasional spasm running through the
frame, told me too plainly that the stage of frenzy would soon
begin. 'My God,' I exclaimed in despair, as I shut the door and
turned toward her, 'must I see you die, Gulnare, when the opening
of a vein would save you? Have you borne me, my pet, through all
these years of peril, the icy chill of winter, the heat and torment
of summer, and all the thronging dangers of a hundred bloody
battles, only to die torn by fierce agonies, when so near a
peaceful home?'
"But little time was given me to mourn. My life was soon to be in
peril, and I must summon up the utmost power of eye and limb to
escape the violence of my frenzied mare. Did you ever see a mad
horse when his madness is on him? Take your stand with me in that
car, and you shall see what suffering a dumb creature can endure
before it dies. In no malady does a horse suffer more than in
phrenitis, or inflammation of the brain. Possibly in severe cases
of colic, probably in rabies in its fiercest form, the pain is
equally intense. These three are the most agonizing of all the
diseases to which the noblest of animals is exposed. Had my pistols
been with me, I should then and there, with whatever strength
Heaven granted, have taken my companion's life, that she might be
spared the suffering which was so soon to rack and wring her
sensitive frame. A horse laboring under an attack of phrenitis is
as violent as a horse can be. He is not ferocious as is one in a
fit of rabies. He may kill his master, but he does it without
design. There is in him no desire of mischief for its own sake, no
cruel cunning, no stratagem and malice. A rabid horse is conscious
in every act and motion. He recognizes the man he destroys. There
is in him an insane _desire to kill._ Not so with the phrenetic
horse. He is unconscious in his violence. He sees and recognizes
no one. There is no method of purpose in his madness. He kills
without knowing it.
"I knew what was coming. I could not jump out, that would be
certain death. I must abide in the car, and take my chance of life.
The car was fortunately high, long, and roomy. I took my position
in front of my horse, watchful, and ready to spring. Suddenly her
lids, which had been closed, came open with a snap, as if an
electric shock had passed through her, and the eyes, wild in their
brightness, stared directly at me. And what eyes they were! The
membrane grew red and redder until it was of the color of blood,
standing out in frightful contrast with the transparency of the
cornea. The pupil gradually dilated until it seemed about to burst
out of the socket. The nostrils, which had been sunken and
motionless, quivered, swelled, and glowed. The respiration became
short, quick and gasping. The limp and dripping ears stiffened and
stood erect, pricked sharply forward, as if to catch the slightest
sound. Spasms, as the car swerved and vibrated, ran along her
frame. More horrid than all, the lips slowly contracted, and the
white, sharp-edged teeth stood uncovered, giving an indescribable
look of ferocity to the partially opened mouth. The car suddenly
reeled as it dashed around a curve, swaying her almost off her
feet, and as a contortion shook her, she recovered herself, and
rearing upward as high as the car permitted, plunged directly at
me. I was expecting the movement, and dodged. Then followed
exhibitions of pain which I pray God I may never see again. Time
and again did she dash herself upon the floor, and roll over and
over, lashing out with her feet in all directions. Pausing a
moment, she would stretch her body to its extreme length, and,
lying upon her side, pound the floor with her head as if it were a
maul. Then like a flash she would leap to her feet, and whirl round
and round until from very giddiness she would stagger and fall. She
would lay hold of the straw with her teeth, and shake it as a dog
shakes a struggling woodchuck; then dashing it from her mouth, she
would seize hold of her own sides, and rend herself. Springing up,
she would rush against the end of the car, falling all in a heap
from the violence of the concussion. For some fifteen minutes
without intermission the frenzy lasted. I was nearly exhausted. My
efforts to avoid her mad rushes, the terrible tension of my nervous
system produced by the spectacle of such exquisite and prolonged
suffering, were weakening me beyond what I should have thought it
possible an hour before for anything to weaken me. In fact, I felt
my strength leaving me. A terror such as I had never yet felt was
taking possession of my mind. I sickened at the sight before me,
and at the thought of agonies yet to come. 'My God I exclaimed,
'must I be killed by my own horse in this miserable car!' Even as I
spoke the end came. The mare raised herself until her shoulders
touched the roof, then dashed her body upon the floor with a
violence which threatened the stout frame beneath her. I leaned,
panting and exhausted, against the side of the car. Gulnare did not
stir. She lay motionless, her breath coming and going in lessening
respirations. I tottered toward her, and as I stood above her, my
ear detected a low gurgling sound. I cannot describe the feeling
that followed. Joy and grief contended within me. I knew the
meaning of that sound. Gulnare, in her frenzied violence, had
broken a blood-vessel, and was bleeding internally. Pain and life
were passing away together. I knelt down by her side. I laid my
head upon her shoulders, and sobbed aloud. Her body moved a little
beneath me. I crawled forward, and lifted her beautiful head into
my lap. O, for one more sign of recognition before she died! I
smoothed the tangled masses of her mane. I wiped, with a fragment
of my coat, torn in the struggle, the blood which oozed from her
nostril. I called her by name. My desire was granted. In a moment
Gulnare opened her eyes. The redness of frenzy had passed out of
them. She saw and recognized me. I spoke again. Her eye lighted a
moment with the old and intelligent look of love. Her ear moved.
Her nostril quivered slightly as she strove to neigh. The effort
was in vain. Her love was greater than her strength. She moved her
head a little, as if she would be nearer me, looked once more with
her clear eyes into my face, breathed a long breath, straightened
her shapely limbs, and died. And there, holding the head of my dead
mare in my lap, while the great warm tears fell one after another
down my cheeks, I sat until the sun went down, the shadows darkened
in the car, and night drew her mantle, colored like my grief, over
the world."
A-HUNTING OF THE DEER
By Charles Dudley Warner
The pleasurable excitement of a deer-hunt has never, I believe,
been regarded from the deer's point of view. I happen to be in a
position, by reason of a lucky Adirondack experience, to present it
in that light.
Early on the morning of the 23d of August, 1877, a doe was feeding
on Basin Mountain. The night had been warm and showery, and the
morning opened in an undecided way. The wind was southerly: it is
what the deer call a dog-wind, having come to know quite well the
meaning of "a southerly wind and a cloudy sky." The sole companion
of the doe was her only child, a charming little fawn, whose brown
coat was beginning to be mottled with the beautiful spots which
make this young creature as lovely as the gazelle. The buck, its
father, had been that night on a long tramp across the mountain to
Clear Pond, and had not yet returned.
The doe was feeding, daintily cropping the tender leaves of the
young shoots, and turning from time to time to regard her
offspring. The fawn had taken his morning meal, and now lay curled
up on a bed of moss, watching contentedly, with his large,
soft-brown eyes, every movement of his mother. The great eyes
followed her with an alert entreaty; and, if the mother stepped a
pace or two further away in feeding, the fawn made a half-movement,
as if to rise and follow her. You see, she was his sole dependence
in all the world. But he was quickly reassured when she turned her
gaze on him; and if, in alarm, he uttered a plaintive cry, she
bounded to him at once, and, with every demonstration of affection,
licked his mottled skin till it shone again.
It was a pretty picture--maternal love on the one part, and happy
trust on the other. The doe was a beauty, and would have been so
considered anywhere, as graceful and winning a creature as the sun
that day shone on--slender limbs, not too heavy flanks, round body,
and aristocratic head, with small ears, and luminous, intelligent,
affectionate eyes. How alert, supple, free, she was! What untaught
grace in every movement! What a charming pose when she lifted her
head, and turned it to regard her child! You would have had a
companion-picture, if you had seen, as I saw that morning, a baby
kicking about among the dry pine-needles on a ledge above the
Ausable, in the valley below, while its young mother sat near, with
an easel before her, touching in the color of a reluctant
landscape, giving a quick look at the sky and the outline of the
Twin Mountains, and bestowing every third glance upon the laughing
boy-art in its infancy.
The doe lifted her head a little with a quick motion, and turned
her ear to the south. Had she heard something? Probably it was only
the south wind in the balsams. There was silence all about in the
forest. If the doe had heard anything it was one of the distant
noises of the world. There are in the woods occasional moanings,
premonitions of change, which are inaudible to the dull ears of
men, but which, I have no doubt, the forest-folk hear and
understand. If the doe's suspicions were excited for an instant,
they were gone as soon.
But suddenly she started, head erect, eyes dilated, a tremor in her
limbs. She took a step; she turned her head to the south; she
listened intently. There was a sound--a distant, prolonged note,
bell-toned, pervading the woods, shaking the air in smooth
vibrations. It was repeated. The doe had no doubt now. She shook
like the sensitive mimosa when a footstep approaches. It was the
baying of a hound! It was far off--at the foot of the mountain.
Time enough to fly; time enough to put miles between her and the
hound, before he should come upon her fresh trail; time enough to
escape away through the dense forest and hide in the recesses of
Panther Gorge; yes, time enough. But there was the fawn. The cry of
the hound was repeated, more distinct this time. The mother
instinctively bounded away a few paces. The fawn started up with an
anxious bleat. The doe turned; she came back; she couldn't leave
it. She bent over it, and licked it, and seemed to say, "Come, my
child; we are pursued; we must go." She walked away toward the
west, and the little thing skipped after her. It was slow going for
the slender legs, over the fallen logs, and through the rasping
bushes. The doe bounded in advance, and waited; the fawn scrambled
after her, slipping and tumbling along, very groggy yet on its
legs, and whining a good deal because its mother kept always moving
away from it.
Shortly came a sound that threw the doe into a panic of terror--a
short, sharp yelp, followed by a prolonged howl, caught up and
re-echoed by other bayings along the mountain-side. The doe knew
what that meant. One hound had caught her trail, and the whole pack
responded to the "view-halloo." The danger was certain now; it was
near. She could not crawl on in this way; the dogs would soon be
upon them. She turned again for flight: the fawn, scrambling after
her, tumbled over, and bleated piteously. The baying, now
emphasized by the yelp of certainty, came nearer. Flight with the
fawn was impossible. The doe returned ajad stood by it, head erect,
and nostrils distended. She stood perfectly still, but trembling.
Perhaps she was thinking. The fawn took advantage of the situation,
and began to draw his luncheon ration. The doe seemed to have made
up her mind. She let him finish. The fawn, having taken all he
wanted, lay down contentedly, and the doe licked him for a moment.
Then, with the swiftness of a bird, she dashed away, and in a
moment was lost in the forest. She went in the direction of the
hounds.
According to all human calculations, she was going into the jaws of
death. So she was: all human calculations are selfish. She kept
straight on, hearing the baying every moment more distinctly. She
descended the slope of the mountain until she reached the more open
forest of hard-wood. It was freer going here, and the cry of the
pack echoed more resoundingly in the great spaces. She was going
due east, when (judging by the sound, the hounds were not far off,
though they were still hidden by a ridge) she turned away toward
the north, and kept on at a good pace. In five minutes more she
heard the sharp, exultant yelp of discovery, and then the
deep-mouthed howl of pursuit. The hounds had struck her trail where
she turned, and the fawn was safe.
The doe was in good running condition, the ground was not bad, and
she felt the exhilaration of the chase. For the moment, fear left
her, and she bounded on with the exaltation of triumph. For a
quarter of an hour she went on at a slapping pace, clearing the
moose-bushes with bound after bound, flying over the fallen logs,
pausing neither for brook nor ravine. The baying of the hounds grew
fainter behind her. But she struck a bad piece of going, a
dead-wood slash. It was marvellous to see her skim over it, leaping
among its intricacies, and not breaking her slender legs. No other
living animal could do it. But it was killing work. She began to
pant fearfully; she lost ground. The baying of the hounds was
nearer. She climbed the hard-wood hill at a slower gait: but, once
on more level, free ground, her breath came back to her, and she
stretched away with new courage, and maybe a sort of contempt for
her heavy pursuers.
After running at a high speed perhaps half a mile further it
occurred to her that it would be safe now to turn to the west, and,
by a wide circuit, seek her fawn. But, at the moment, she heard a
sound that chilled her heart. It was the cry of a hound to the west
of her. The crafty brute had made the circuit of the slash, and cut
off her retreat. There was nothing to do but to keep on; and on she
went, still to the north, with the noise of the pack behind her. In
five minutes more she had passed into a hillside clearing. Cows and
young steers were grazing there. She heard a tinkle of bells. Below
her, down the mountain-slope, were other clearings, broken by
patches of woods. Fences intervened; and a mile or two down lay the
valley, the shining Ausable, and the peaceful farmhouses. That way
also her hereditary enemies were. Not a merciful heart in all that
lovely valley. She hesitated; it was only for an instant. She must
cross the Slidebrook Valley if possible, and gain the mountain
opposite.
The hunted doe went down "the open," clearing the fences
splendidly, flying along the stony path. It was a beautiful sight.
But consider what a shot it was! If the deer, now, could only have
been caught! No doubt there were tender-hearted people in the
valley who would have spared her life, shut her up in a stable, and
petted her.
The doe went on; she left the saw-mill on John's Brook to her
right; she turned into a wood-path. As she approached Slide Brook,
she saw a boy standing by a tree with a raised rifle. The dogs were
not in sight, but she could hear them coming down the hill. There
was no time for hesitation. With a tremendous burst of speed she
cleared the stream, and, as she touched the bank, heard the "ping"
of a rifle bullet in the air above her. The cruel sound gave wings
to the poor thing. In a moment more she was in the opening: she
leaped into the travelled road. Which way? Below her in the wood
was a load of hay: a man and a boy, with pitchforks in their hands,
were running toward her. She turned south, and flew along the
street. The town was up. Women and children ran to the doors and
windows; men snatched their rifles; shots were fired; at the big
boarding-houses, the summer boarders, who never have anything to
do, came out and cheered; a camp-stool was thrown from a veranda.
Some young fellows shooting at a mark in the meadow saw the flying
deer, and popped away at her: but they were accustomed to a mark
that stood still. It was all so sudden! There were twenty people
who were just going to shoot her when the doe leaped the road
fence, and went away across a marsh toward the foot-hills. It was a
fearful gantlet to run. But nobody except the deer considered it in
that light. Everybody told what he was just going to do! everybody
who had seen the performance was a kind of hero-everybody except
the deer.