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!