Part 27

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.

“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.’

“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.

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!”

After the war was over he was taken to Strathfieldsaye, the Duke’s country-seat; and there, an object of general interest, spent the rest of his days in honorable leisure. It is true that this distinction had its drawbacks. Young ladies would entreat the “kind duke” or the “dear duchess” for a little of Copenhagen’s hair to set in a ring; until finally, his neck growing bare of mane, and his tail threatening to become a mere stump, his admirers were forced to content themselves with such stray hairs as might fall. A fine paddock was assigned him, with a summer house at one corner, opening into it by means of a wicket. Here he would come daily to receive bread and gentle petting from the duchess.

With age his eyesight partially failed, and his teeth grew so poor that he could not eat oats unless they were broken up beforehand. He was twenty-seven years old when he died, in 1835. He was buried in his paddock, with military honors, and a small circular railing still marks the spot. Some person--unknown--stole one of his hoofs, which poor memorial is now preserved in the same museum as Bobby, together with the skeleton of Marengo, the horse of Wellington’s great rival, Napoleon.