During the first year of his service in the field, Carlo was very fortunate. He had shared in all of the transportations by water, in all the marchings, skirmishes, and battles, without receiving a scratch or having a day’s illness. But his good fortune was soon to end, for it was ordained that, like other brave defenders, he was to suffer in the great cause for which all were risking their lives.
The morning of April 18, 1862, my brigade then stationed at Roanoke Island, embarked upon the Steamer Ocean Wave for an expedition up the Elizabeth River, the object of which was to destroy the locks of the dismal swamp canal in order to prevent several imaginary iron-clads from getting into Albemarle Sound, where we had assembled at that time what was known as a “Pasteboard Fleet,” which the supposed iron-clads were to destroy.
Among the first to embark was the ever ready and faithful Carlo, and the next morning, when his companions disembarked near Elizabeth City, he was one of the first to land, and, during the whole of the long and dreary march of thirty miles to Camden Court House, lasting from three o’clock in the morning until one in the afternoon, he was ever on the alert, but keeping close to his regiment. The field of battle was reached: the engagement, in which his command met with a great loss, commenced and ended, and, when the particulars of the disaster were inventoried, it was ascertained that a cruel Confederate bullet had taken the rudimentary claw from Carlo’s left fore-leg. This was his first wound, and he bore it like a hero without a whine or even a limp. A private of Co. G, who first noticed the wound, exclaimed: “Ah, Carlo, what a pity you are not an officer! If you were, the loss of that claw would give you sixty days leave and a Brigadier-General’s Commission at the end of it.” That was about the time that General’s Commissions had become very plentiful in the Department of North Carolina.
The Command re-embarked, and reached Roanoke Island the morning after the engagement, in time for the regulation “Hospital or Sick Call,” which that day brought together an unusual number of patients, and among them Carlo, who was asked to join the waiting line by one of the wounded men. When his turn came to be inspected by the attending surgeon, he was told to hold up the wounded leg, which he readily did, and then followed the washing, the application of simple cerate, and the bandaging, with a considerable show of interest and probable satisfaction. Thereafter, there was no occasion to extend to him an invitation to attend the Surgeon’s inspection. Each morning, as soon as the bugle call was sounded, he would take his place in line with the other patients, advance to his turn, and receive the usual treatment. This habit continued until the wound was healed. Always, after this, to every friendly greeting, he would respond by holding up the wounded leg for inspection, and he acted as though he thought that everybody was interested in the honorable scar that told the story of patriotic duty faithfully performed.
Later on, for some reason known to himself, Carlo transferred his special allegiance to Co. K, and maintained close connection with that Company until the end of his term of service. He was regarded by its members as a member of the Company mess, and was treated as one of them. But, notwithstanding his special attachments, there can be no reasonable doubt about his having considered himself a member of the regiment, clothed with certain powers and responsibilities. At the end of his term, he was fitted with a uniform—trousers, jacket, and fez, and, thus apparalled, marched up Broadway, immediately behind the band. He was soon after mustered out of the service, and received an honorable discharge, not signed with written characters, but attested by the good-will of every member of the regiment.
If alive to-day, he must be very old and decrepit; and I am sure that if he is, in his honorable old age his honest traits of character have not forsaken him. No doubt, he takes a just pride in the good service he rendered to his country in the years of its great trials, and it is fortunate that his having four legs has placed him beyond the temptation to join the ranks of the Grand Army of treasury looters, who have traded off the honorable name of soldier for that of the pensioned mercenary.
JEFF, THE INQUISITIVE
Among the gunboats doing duty on the inland waters of North Carolina, in the early Spring of 1862, which composed what Commodore Goldsborough designated his “Pasteboard Fleet,” was the Louisiana, commanded by Commander Alexander Murray, who was noted for his efficiency and good nature. His treatment of his crew made him one of the most popular officers in the whole fleet. He entered into all of their sports, and sympathized with the discomforts of forecastle life. He was fond of animal pets, and always welcomed the arrival of a new one. At the time of which I am writing, his ship carried quite a collection of tame birds and four-footed favorites.
Among them was a singular little character known as “Jeff.” He was a perfectly black pig of the “Racer Razor Back” order, which, at that time, were plentiful in the coast sections of the more southern of the slave-holding States. They were called “racers” because of their long legs, slender bodies, and great capacity for running; and “Razor Backs” on account of the prominence of the spinal column. The origin of this particular species of the porcine tribe is unknown, but there is a tradition to the effect that their progenitors were a part of the drove that came to the coast of Florida with De Soto when he started on the march which ended with the discovery of the Mississippi River. History records the fact that a large number of animals were brought from Spain for food, and that a considerable number of them succeeded in getting away from the expedition soon after the landing was effected.