Part 26

There have been many similar instances of canine devotion; yet it must be confessed that with dogs as with men, less lofty motives occasionally lead them into war. A restless, happy-go-lucky turn of mind has inspired many a four-footed one with the wish to be a soldier, and carried him with credit through the campaigns.

Pure adventurousness animated Bobby, a pet of the Scotch Fusileers, and gave him a fame out of all proportion to the small body now preserved in the United Service Museum in London.

In this curious and little known collection there are many interesting objects--from the sword which Cromwell used with such fatal energy at Drogheda, to a petticoat once worn by Queen Elizabeth. Why the latter should be in a military museum it is hard to say, unless, indeed, it is regarded in the light of feminine armor. But Bobby’s right to be there is indefeasible. A dog of war, he can rest better nowhere than amidst the military surroundings so dear to him in life. Very sagacious he looks, seated dog-fashion on his haunches, and gazing alertly forward with a knowing cock of the head.

Of low degree--a mere butcher’s dog--he nevertheless, like Napoleon, 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.

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.”