It was very often a difficult matter for the mounted officers to get forage for their horses; for our movements were so many and so sudden, that it was plainly impossible for the trains to follow us wherever we went. Often when we halted at night the wagons were miles and miles away from us, and sometimes we did not get a sight of them for a week, or even longer. Then the poor hard-ridden horses would have to suffer. But it was well known that Page could get oats when nobody else could. Though the wagon trains were many miles in the rear, Page seldom permitted his horses to go to bed supperless. Though an American by birth, he was a Spartan in craft, and had a wit as keen and sharp as a razor. It was said that, rather than have his horses go without their allowance, he would if necessary sit up half the night, after a hard day's march, and wait till everybody else was sound asleep, and then quietly slip from under the heads of the orderlies of other commands the very oat-bags which, in order to guard them the more securely, they were using for their pillows; for oats Page would have for the general's horse, by hook or by crook.
"You see the commissary yonder?" said Page to me in a half-whisper, as he dismounted and threw an empty bag over his arm and gave his waist-belt a hitch: "he's a coward, he is. Look at him how he jukes his head at every crack of the cannon! Don't know whether he's dealing out oats to the right man or not. Just you keep an eye on my horse, will you?"
Now Page had no right in the least to draw forage rations there, for that was not our division-train. But as he did not know where our division-train was, and as all the oats belonged to Uncle Sam anyhow, why where was the harm of getting your forage wherever you could?
Pushing his way into the circle of teamsters, who were too much engaged in watching for shells to notice the presence of a stranger, Page boldly opened his bag, while Mr. Commissary, ducking his head between his shoulders at every boom of the guns, poured four bucketfuls of oats into the bag of the new-comer, whereupon Page shouldered his prize, mounted his horse, and rode away with a smile on his face which said as plainly as could be, "That's the way to do it, my lad!"
In the wild mêlée of that May evening there at Jericho,—where evidently we had all fallen among thieves,—there was no little confusion as to the rights of property; meum and tuum got sadly mixed; some horses had lost their owners, and some owners had lost their horses; and the same was the case with the mules. So that by the time things began to get quiet again, some of the boys had picked up stray horses, or bought them for a mere song. On coming up with the regiment, I found that Andy had just concluded a bargain of this sort. He had bought a sorrel horse. The animal was a great raw-boned, ungainly beast, built after the Gothic style of horse architecture, and would have made an admirable sign for a feed-store up North, as a substitute for "Oats wanted; inquire within." However, when I came up, Andy had already concluded the bargain, and had become the sole owner and proprietor of the sorrel horse for the small consideration of ten dollars.
"Why, Andy!" exclaimed I, "what in the name of all conscience do you want with a horse? Going to join the cavalry?"
"Andy had bought the Sorrel for Ten Dollars."
"Well," said Andy, with a grin, "I took him on a speculation. Going to feed him up a little"——