DON AND I
And a glimpse of the camp of Hancock's Division, Second Army Corps, back of Falmouth, Va., winter of 1862-3.
[See page 171*]
[(see image enlarged)]

[*May] I digress long enough to speak a little more of this remarkable horse. Dr. Holland says there is always hope for any man who has heart enough to love a good horse. Army life was well calculated to develop the sterling qualities of both man and beast. Hence, I suppose every man who had a good horse could safely regard him as "most remarkable." How many such have I heard cavalrymen talk about, descanting on the "remarkable" qualities of their half-human favorites, whilst the tears wet their cheeks. I had named this splendid animal "Don Fulano," after that superb horse in Winthrop's "John Brent," not because he was a magnificent black charger, etc.; on the contrary, in many respects he was the opposite of the original Don Fulano. Raised upon an unromantic farm near Scranton, an unattractive yellow bay, rather too heavy limbed and too stockily built to be called handsome, yet powerful, courageous, intelligent (he could almost talk), high spirited, with a heavy, shaggy mane and forelock, through which gleamed a pair of keen, fierce eyes, he had many of the qualities which distinguished his noble prototype. He had not the high honor to die carrying a slave to liberty, but when the final accounts come to be squared up in the horses' heaven, it is possible that the credit of having passed unflinchingly through the battles of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and of having safely carried a wounded soldier off each field may prove to be a little something in favor of my splendid "Don." As a saddler, he came to me practically unbroken. He was sold from the farm because he would jump all fences, yet under the saddle, when I took him, he would not jump the smallest obstacle. This is really as much of an art on the part of the rider as with the horse. An unskilled rider is liable to seriously injure both the horse and himself in jumping. If he is unsteady, the motion of the horse as he rises to make his leap is liable to pitch him over his head. On the other hand, if he clings back, a dead weight in his saddle, he is liable to throw the horse backward. I have seen both done. The secret of successful jumping is to give the horse his head as he rises, feel your knees against his sides firmly, rising with him as he rises and be again in your seat before his feet reach the ground. This helps him and saves both a killing jounce. I finally trained him so that as a jumper he was without a peer in our part of the army. I have had the men hold a pole fully a foot higher than my head, as I stood on the ground, and have jumped him back and forth over it as readily as cats and dogs are taught to jump over one's arm. And the men insisted that he cleared the pole at least a foot each jump.

This jumping of horses was considered quite an accomplishment in the army, it being often a necessity on the march in getting over obstacles. One day I saw our general's son, a young West Pointer, attached to his father's staff, trying to force his Kentucky thoroughbred to jump a creek that ran past division head-quarters. The creek was probably ten to twelve feet wide and, like all Virginia creeks, its banks seemed cut vertically through the soil and the water at the edges was about a foot deep. After repeated trials the best the young man's horse could do was to get his forefeet on the opposite bank. His hindfeet always landed in the water. Mr. West Pointer was way above noticing in any way a poor volunteer plebeian like myself mounted on an old plug like Don. But Don had taken in the situation as well as I, and when I said, "Come, Don, let's us try it," he just gathered himself and sailed over that creek like a bird, landing easily a couple of feet on the other side, and swung around for another try. The young fellow gathered up his thoroughbred and with an oath of disgust retired. Don and I became great friends, and after our fight, above mentioned, in all our practice jumping or on the march, or riding about, I never had occasion to use the spur,—indeed, I seldom wore one. A simple "Come, Don," and he was quick to obey my every wish. He was kind and tractable with others, but it was a singular fact that, as for jumping or any other favors, he would do nothing for anybody but me, not even for my man who took care of him. Others, including horse-trainers, repeatedly asked to try him, thinking they could improve his work, but he drew the line on all; not even a little jump would he make for any of them. I had been jumping him, one day, to the delight and admiration of the men. Among them was a horse-trainer of the Fourth New York, who asked the privilege of trying him. He mounted and brought him cantering up to the pole as though he was going over all right, but instead of making the leap he suddenly whirled, almost dumping the trainer, to the infinite amusement of the men; nor could he induce him to make the leap. I mounted again and he went over, back and forth, without the slightest hesitation. I brought him home from the war, and it was a great grief to me that I was unable to keep him as long as he lived. I secured him a good home, where he lived to a dignified old age. One of my household gods is a photograph of Don and myself, with a section of the camp of Hancock's division of the Second Corps for a background, taken at this time, whilst we lay back of Falmouth.

My second adventure that first day on picket duty occurred shortly after I reached the head-quarters of the picket at the Lacey House, directly opposite the city of Fredericksburg. I had seen the new line posted and the old line relieved, when a grizzly bearded old gentleman rode up and inquired for the "Officer of the day." His dress was exceedingly plain. He wore a much-battered slouch hat down over his eyes, and on the shoulders of his blouse, scarcely discernible, was what had been the silver stars of a brigadier-general. I answered his inquiry by saluting, and then recognized General Alfred Sully, long famed as an Indian fighter before the war. He introduced himself as "Corps officer of the day" and my superior officer for this tour of picket duty. The peculiar thing about his presence was his treatment of me. He evidently saw that he had a greenhorn on hand, for the first question he fired at me was, "How many times have you served as picket officer of the day?" I candidly replied that this was my first experience. "Your knowledge of the duties of officer of the day is somewhat limited?" I admitted the fact. "That is all right," said he with a pleasant smile. "You are just the man I want. You shall remain with me all day, and I will teach you all there is about it." I shall never forget that day's experience with this splendid old officer. I rode with him over the whole corps line in the morning, and after that he made his head-quarters at the Lacey House with me. Our division front, said he, is where an attack is most to be looked for, and then he went over it carefully with me, pointing out the most probable points of attack and how they should be met; what to do at this point and that, and so on, in a most intelligent and entertaining manner gave me the practical idea of a picket defence, out of his long and ample experience as a regular army officer. It was just what I needed and was of the greatest value to me. It was practical experience under a superb instructor. If all the regular army officers I came in contact with had been as kind and considerate as this superb Indian fighter, I should have been equally grateful. Unfortunately, this was not the case. My experience in this respect may have been exceptional, but the instance above narrated is the one solitary case in which my duties brought me in contact with regular army officers that I did not receive a rebuff, frequently most brutal and insulting. Doubtless the lack of knowledge of army customs and routine on the part of us volunteer officers was calculated to try their patience, for they occupied all the higher executive staff positions, and routine business of all kinds had to pass their scrutiny.

But what were they given West Point education and training at the public expense for if not to impart it to those who should be called to fill volunteer positions in times of the country's need? And how should a volunteer, called into the service of his country without a particle of military education, be expected to understand the interminable routine of army red tape? I will dismiss this digression with a single instance of my experience in seeking information from one of the younger West Pointers. It occurred while I was still adjutant and shortly before my promotion. Some special detailed report was called for. There were so many of these wanted, with so many minute and intricate details, that I cannot remember what this particular one was, but they were enough almost to drive a man to drink. This one, I remember, utterly stumped me, and I rode over to Captain Mason, assistant adjutant-general of our brigade, a thoroughly competent officer, for information. He looked at it a moment, then said: "It beats me; but go down to corps head-quarters and you will find Lieutenant——, a regular army officer, whose business it is to give just such information as you require." I rode there at once and inquired for Lieutenant——, as directed. The reply was, "Here he is. What in h—l do you want?" Not specially reassured by this inquiry, I handed him the paper and made known my wishes for information. He literally threw it back at me with the reply, "Go to h—l and find out." I replied that from his manner of speech I appeared to be pretty near there now. I went back to Captain Mason and recounted my experience, to his intense disgust, but that was all that ever came of it. We volunteers learned to avoid a regular officer, especially of the young West Point type, as we would a pestilence.

Returning now to my picket duties of that day, a third incident occurred in the afternoon. The captain of the picket came into our office at the Lacey House with the information that there was a hail from the opposite bank of the river with a flag of truce—a small white flag. We all rushed out, and General Sully directed the captain to take a corporal's guard—a corporal and four men—from his reserve, and go down to the water's edge under a like flag and inquire what was wanted. This formality, he said, was necessary to properly recognize their flag of truce, and to guard against a possible fake or bit of treachery. The reply from the other side was that a young woman in Fredericksburg was exceedingly desirous of reaching her home some distance within the Union lines, and would the Union commander receive a communication upon the subject. General Sully replied that he would receive their communication and forward it to head-quarters, whereupon an orderly was sent over in a boat with the communication. He was unarmed, as were those who rowed him over. The letter was despatched to army head-quarters, whilst the orderly and his boatmen were detained at the landing under guard of our detail. They sat down and in an entirely easy and friendly way chatted with our guard. One would not have believed that these men would shed each other's blood instantly the little white flag was lowered. Yet such was the fact. A half-hour brought a reply to the communication. We, of course, saw neither their letter nor the reply, but my lady was immediately brought over and escorted by a mounted guard to army head-quarters, an ambulance being utilized for the purpose. She was really a very pretty young woman, and evidently a thorough lady, though a spirit of hauteur made it apparent she was a Southerner through and through. She maintained a perfect composure during the formality of her reception into our lines, for the officer from the rebel lines who escorted her required a receipt from the officer who had been sent down from head-quarters to receive her; and the appearance of a pretty woman in our lines was so unusual an event that Uncle Sam's boys may have been pardoned if they were all anxious to get a square view of the charming vision. This receipt had to be made in duplicate, one for each army, both officers, as well as the young woman, attesting it with their signatures. General Sully more than half suspected she was a rebel spy. If she was, they wisely chose a beauty for the work.

CHAPTER XIV