AN AFTER-THOUGHT.

The Horses.

"Here lies the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolls not the breath of his pride.
The foam of his gasping lies white on the turf,
And as cold as the spray of the rock-beaten surf."

I do not mean to intimate by the headline of this chapter that I forgot the horses of Lee's army. They were on my mind all through the story, but it was not until the manuscript was in the hands of the printer that the thought came to me that they should have a chapter in this book. Ah! the horses—the blacks and bays, the roans and grays, the sorrels and chestnuts that pulled Lee's army from the Rappahannock to Gettysburg and back, and all the other horses that pulled and tugged at the wagons, at the batteries of artillery; the horses that carried the men, the unstabled horses and the half-fed horses. Let my right hand forget its cunning if I forget to pay proper tribute to those noble animals that suffered so much for their masters. How often my mind goes back to that horse that I saw coming across the field from the front at Bull Run with his sides all dripping with blood. He was a hero, for he had been out "where the fields were shot, sown and bladed thick with steel," and was coming back to die. Nearly all the bodies of the men were buried, and some horses, for sanitary purposes, were covered with earth, and a few may now be lying in comfortable graves, marked by marble shafts. Lee's gray horse, "Traveler," and Jackson's little sorrel, though dead, may yet be seen, not unlike they were when they bore their riders along the battle front. But the bones of all the other horses that perished whitened for a while the hills and valleys and the roadsides that stretched from Gettysburg to Appomattox, and then when the war was over, men gathered them up and ground them into merchandise to enrich their coffers. The horses that were alive at the close of the war were, for the most part, tenderly cared for, and have long ago joined their comrades on the other side. I hope they are all grazing together on red-headed clover in the green fields of Eden.

How many horses were in Lee's army from beginning to end and how many perished has never been told. Some idea can be formed from the following statement:

Such an army as Lee's, of 100,000 men, required 15,000 draft horses, 10,000 for cavalry, and perhaps 1500 to 2000 for the officers, their staffs and couriers, making a total of 27,000 horses. Perhaps a fair estimate of the number of horses employed in the army of Northern Virginia, commanded by Gen. Lee in person, from 1861 to 1865, would be 75,000. Of these, 30,000 may have survived the war, the remaining 45,000 perished. Add to these, say, 120,000 for the Union army, and we have the sum total of 195,000 horses that took part in that great drama, where the soil of Virginia was the stage.

My first horse was named Rover. She and I were colts together on the farm, I nine years her senior. I loved her, but there are doubts about her love for me. When young, she could run faster, jump higher and cut more "monkey shines" than any colt in the neighborhood. More than once she landed me on my back in the middle of the road. This was before she entered the military service of the Confederacy.

Once my father was on her back crossing a stream. He loosened the rein to let her drink. A leaf came floating down the stream as peacefully as a summer zephyr. This gave Rover an opportunity for playing one of her pet tricks. When the leaf came in view she pretended to be terribly frightened, made a leap forward, and landed my father on his back in the middle of the stream. The water furnished so soft a bed that he was unhurt. There was a carriage just behind in which Bishop Alpheus W. Wilson of the M.E. Church South, now living in Baltimore, was riding. I heard him tell the story a short time ago, and from the pleasure with which he related it, I am satisfied that he greatly enjoyed the episode at the time, and the remembrance still affords him amusement. The good bishop was then a circuit rider on Loudoun Circuit, and Rover carried him on her back around the circuit. He tried hard to make her a good saddle-horse, and succeeded. He also tried to improve her manners, and while she may have behaved herself when under his eye, it is doubtful whether she ever experienced a change of heart.

I was always suspicious of her, and I had a right to be. Sometimes I thought she was opposed to secession and worked in the interest of the Union. Once she delivered me into the hands of the Yankees, and tried to do it again and again. She seemed to have an affinity for United States horses, and always wanted to carry me directly in among them. It has already been stated that she had a jaw that no bit could hold. If she had been a woman we might have thought that it was the result of talking too much. My, what a weapon of destruction Samson could have made of her jawbone! I don't know when and where she joined the great majority, for we parted company in the spring of 1863 on the banks of the Shenandoah river. I deserted her to avoid capture. We never met again, unless it was on the opposite sides of the battle line, and if so, she took very good care to keep on her own side; at least on the side that was opposed to my side. It grieved me very much to part with her, for, with all her faults, I loved her still.

The cavalryman and his horse got very close to each other, not only physically, but heart to heart. They ate together, slept together, marched, fought and often died together. Frequently a wounded horse would be seen bearing his wounded rider back from the front. During Lee's march to Gettysburg and back the cavalryman was in touch with his horse 18 hours out of 24, and the other six hours he was usually close enough to mount at a moment's warning. Much of the time, while in Pennsylvania, the men slept with their horses tied to the wrist. While the rider slept, the horse cropped the grass around him as far out as his tether would allow him, and as close up to his rider's body as he could get. Sometimes he would push the man's head aside with his nose to get the grass beneath it. I have seen men by the thousands lying in this manner in the fields with their horses grazing about them, yet I never knew a horse to tread on one, or in any way injure him.

On one occasion, near Chambersburg, Pa., the men were sleeping with their horses grazing about them, when the bugle called us to mount. Some time after forming in line I missed one of my messmates, and called the captain's attention to it. He sent me out over the fields in search of him. I found him just over the crest of a little hill fast asleep, with his horse tied to his wrist. He was lying at full length on his back. His horse had closely cropped the grass all around him, and as far out as he could reach, and so completely had he taken every spear of grass about the soldier that when he got up he left a perfect outline of his body on the field.

On another occasion, when en route for Gettysburg, we had halted for a rest at Delaplane, Va. Having no food for our horses we were ordered to turn them loose in the fields to graze. It was 10 o'clock at night. We unbridled and unsaddled our steeds and let them go free. This was in June, and the clover was fine. The hungry animals went briskly to work satisfying their hunger. The grinding of their many jaws sounded like the muffled roar of a distant cataract, and this was the music that lulled the weary men to sleep as they lay scattered over the fields, without any fear of being hurt or trodden upon. But suppose Kilpatrick had suddenly appeared upon the scene and had thrown a few shells into those fields? What would have been the result? You can trust a horse so far and no farther. A field full of unbridled and frightened horses might have brought death and destruction, and swept Stuart's cavalrymen from the face of the earth. But no such fatality occurred. About 2 o'clock in the morning the bugle sounded "saddle up," and although it was quite dark, in an incredibly short time every man was mounted on his own horse and on the march.

There were times when the cavalry would march all night. The men soon learned to sleep on horseback, or you might call it nodding, but some went sound asleep sitting upright on their horses. Occasionally, when a soldier was caught fast asleep, his comrade would slip the rein out of his hand and lead his horse to a fence corner and hitch it. The sudden stopping would awaken him, for he would at once begin to fall. Catching himself, he would look around in amazement, and if the night were dark, he had no little difficulty finding his place in the ranks.

Little episodes similar to this would help to while away the weary hours of the night. Then there was always some wit or wag, who, at intervals of an hour or so, would arouse the whole line with some ridiculous outburst. A dark and stormy night always called for something extraordinary in this line in order to keep the men in good cheer. After, say an hour of silence, during which time not a sound could be heard save the clatter of the horses' feet, the rattle of the soldiers' armor and the splatter of the rain, when suddenly someone with the voice of a foghorn would rouse up and yell out, "I want to go h-o-m-e, and I am sick, that's what I want." Then some other fellow far up or down the line would answer back, "I want to see my m-o-t-h-e-r, and I am hungry, too, that's what I want." This was said in a sobbing tone, as if the speaker were about to burst into tears. It would set the whole column off, and for half an hour or so there would be a lively time.

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."

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