Some of the fellows in our squad had been farmer boys, and felt that they knew all about horses, and were disposed at first to talk horse with the Sergeants; but one lesson in deportment answered for the whole term at Carlisle Barracks.
Those old fellows all said they would far rather take a city man who had never been on a horse than a farmer who had been riding all his life. The city fellows made good Regular Cavalrymen. We learned to ride with our knees and to steer with the legs.
At first our little caps would not stay on top of our heads, but we soon became able to balance them, with the strap dangling under the nose or chin, instead of being fastened under the chin.
These old war-horses had been at the barracks a long time, and had been carefully trained to go by the bugle. At the sound "trot," they would all start off as neatly, with the left foot foremost, as any infantry squad. When the "gallop" was sounded every old horse would switch his tail, take the bit in his teeth and go off like a shot over the field, helter-skelter, as if it were a hurdle race, or the whole Rebel Army were after them. This part of the show is where the most of the fun came in. Of course, some of the riders couldn't keep time with the horses, and their caps and sabers would become troublesome appendages, and were often cast off; then the old Sergeant, bringing up the rear, would yell like a Comanche Indian, which none of us could understand, and, as everybody thought it was necessary we should hear, it had the effect of rattling the whole squad. One of our first lessons was that never, under any circumstances, must we speak to our horses; everything must be done quietly and effectively by bit and spur; but when they got to running us off by the bugle, some of the farmer boys, when they would be tossed up too much, involuntarily sang out, "Whoa!" or else, too audible, cursed the man alongside for jamming their legs. This would bring down such a torrent of abuse on the head of the offender that we were kept in a state of terror from the time we were on the horses till we dismounted.
The Sergeant, or perhaps an officer, after getting the squad well under way, would sound "to the right," and, of course, the horses knew what the bugle said and obeyed the signal instantly; but most of the riders didn't, and were, in consequence, involuntarily going straight ahead or fell off at the unexpected turn of the horse. Then, on the home-stretch, they would so abruptly sound a "halt," that the horses would stop in two jumps, while the rider very likely went straight ahead.
I'm telling you the truth about Carlisle Barracks and the Regular Cavalry. I've been there—several times—and know it all pretty well. Why, it's a fact, that those old horses would, at the command "right dress," as soberly turn their one eye down the line and back up a step or forward as any infantry regiment; and on the wheel the inside horse always marked time beautifully, while the fellow on the outside had to gallop.
I had lots of fun during the couple of weeks that I was at Carlisle Barracks. Probably because I entered with so much zest and earnestness into the drill, which was really sport for me. I attracted the attention (favorably) of the Sergeants and officers, and was so rapidly advanced that my request to be sent to the front with the first detachment was approved. In this ambition Captain Rodenbaugh seconded me, as he had been relieved of recruiting duty, and was ordered to conduct the first party to the front.
We left one cold day in November, via Harrisburg, traveling all night in a box-car attached to a freight train. We were delayed all the next day in Baltimore, putting in the time standing around in the cold, miserable streets, under guard, awaiting our transportation over the slow Baltimore & Ohio to Washington. The second night we reached Washington, and slept on the floor of the barn-like affair they called the Soldiers' Retreat, then located down by the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Depot. A great many soldiers will remember that shanty.
Early next morning, before any of my comrades were awake, I was up about daybreak, anxious to get a look at Washington, and especially Old Capitol Prison, through the glasses of a Union soldier. It was a bitter cold morning; so early as 5 A. M., when I went to the door of our barracks, I was astonished to see, wrapped up in his big blue overcoat, the snow blowing all over him, and standing almost up to his knees in it, our Captain, C. F. Rodenbaugh.
I did not know then that it was an officer's duty, and one of his privileges, to stand around all night in the cold, while his men slept comfortably under shelter. I said something like this to the Captain, when he courteously answered that he was the officer in charge, and it was his duty to see that the sentries were on hand. It was an early lesson; and I will say right here that the Regular officers, though severe and strict in discipline, I found always ready to expose themselves before they asked their men to do so. Apparently the Regular officers held themselves aloof from their men, and though I was almost intimate with Captain Rodenbaugh, I would not have ventured to address him, except in the way of duty, and then only after a proper salute, after we had gotten out in the field. Yet, if I could have met him alone or unobserved, I should have been as free with him as with my best friend. This matter of Regular Army etiquette was fully understood as part of our drill, and the subject never gave us any uneasiness, but in all probability saved us much trouble. There were no favorites in our service; every man was treated alike, and as long as every man did his duty, right up to the scratch, in Regular Army style, he was as independent as any officer, in his way. I had some queer experiences in this way, which I will relate further on.