From Bull Run to Appomattox: A Boy's View

by Luther W. Hopkins

If we were passing a residence, either humble or stately, someone would halt in front of it and "Hello" until he saw a window-sash go up and a head poked out, with the usual question "What is it you want?" The reply would be, "Say, Mister, you had better take your chimney in, it's going to rain." Then before the angry countryman could get his gun the funmaker would gallop off to his place in the ranks. And thus the night was passed.

No amount of hardship or deprivation seemed to dampen the ardor of the cavalier. He always had resources, and when in need, they were drawn upon; but the horse, like Felix, cared for none of these things. They seemed to say, "Have all the fun you want, boys, it doesn't disturb us, but don't forget that when we have crossed the river there will be something more serious for you to do; we are following the feather of Stuart tonight." And thus they would trudge on; it mattered not whether storm or calm, they moved in silence, each horse following the one in front of him, or yielding to the gentle pressure of the rein if the rider had occasion to leave the ranks.

Of course, this condition applied only when they were not in proximity to the enemy. When the bluecoats were about things were different. Every man had his horse well in hand; the spur and the rein told the horse where he must go; the men were silent; only the officers spoke.

The horses were fairly well supplied with food until after Gettysburg. Then when winter came and there was no grass and no growing grain, food for Lee's 27,000 horses became a serious problem. I have pulled dried grass in December for my horse until my fingers bled. At other times, when food was more plentiful, the horse was required to share his food with his master, particularly in roasting-ear time. Then our rations were often the same. We cooked ours, while the horse took his green. But during the winter months, when we needed some kind of beverage to wash down our hardtack, the only thing we could get was horse feed, which was roasted and boiled. We called it coffee. It was very good then. We had to rob our horses for this, and we all felt mean when we did it. A table-spoonful, however, was all that each man had to take from his horse for a cup of coffee. The following winter food got scarcer and scarcer for both man and beast, and the horses became thinner and thinner.

I do not know how others felt about the bodies of the dead horses that lay scattered over the battlefields, but this sight distressed me almost as much as did the bodies of the soldiers. They were so faithful and unfaltering. When the bugle sounded, any hour of the night, or any hour of the day, regardless of how short a time they had rested or how many miles they had marched, they were always ready to respond. They knew all the bugle calls. If it were saddle up, or the feed or the water call, he was as ready to answer one as the other. And he was so noble and so brave in battle. He seemed to love the sound of the guns. The cavalryman might lie low on the neck of his horse for shelter as the missiles of death hissed about him, but the horse never flinched, except when struck.

The cavalryman often used his horse for a breastwork while he fired over his back, but the horse stood like a Casabianca on the burning deck of his father's ship. Did you ever read "Black Beauty?" If you have not, read it. Lee had 75,000 "Black Beauties" in his army, every one of which, or nearly every one, is worthy of a monument. We build monuments for our dead soldiers, for those we know and for the unknown dead. What would you think of a monument some day, somewhere in Virginia, in honor of Lee's noble horses?

I hardly know which branch of the service ought to receive the highest honor, the wagon horses, the artillery horses or the cavalry horses. I was very close to the latter, and knew them better, but the wagon and artillery horses had a warm place in my heart. To see the wagon horses hitched to heavy, loaded wagons, with shells falling around them, with no way of escape, was pathetic. To see the artillery horses torn to pieces by shells that were not intended for them touched a tender cord, and if I should be asked to write their names on the roll of fame, perhaps it would be in the order in which I have named them.

The cavalry horse, however, was my pet, and I should not want to see them any less honored than the former, but they all had their places. Farragut, in the rigging of his flagship giving orders, was all right, but a wooden Indian would have done about as well if the coal-shoveler below had failed to do his duty. What could Gen. Lee have done had all his horses balked in unison? Nothing. Then all honor to Lee's horses, who pulled and hauled and fought and died that this might be a very great nation.

No more appropriate lines could be had for the ending of this story than the following touching little poem by Francis Alexander Durivage:

"There hangs a sabre, and there a rein,
With a rusty buckle and green curb chain;
A pair of spurs on the old gray wall,
And a moldy saddle—well, that is all.
"Come out to the stable—it is not far;
The moss-grown door is hanging ajar.
Look within! There's an empty stall,
Where once stood a charger, and that is all.
"The good black horse came riderless home,
Flecked with blood drops as well as foam;
See yonder hillock where dead leaves fall;
The good black horse dropped dead—that is all.
"All? O, God! it is all I can speak.
Question me not, I am old and weak;
His sabre and his saddle hang on the wall,
And his horse is dead—I have told you all."