The “Farmer’s Home” proved to be an attractive family affair. The father, mother, son and daughter composed the entireménage, and all were equally at home in the duties of their special departments. There was a tour of duty for each in the kitchen; but the energetic daughter was supreme in the “Dining-hall,” where she propelled its affairs with mechanical exactitude. Her unwritten motto was: “On time, or cold victuals.” She was a strict constructionist, and “cl’ared off the things” as soon as the last piece of pie had disappeared. But, as the English would say, she was not at all a bad sort. She was active, inquisitive, quaint, and direct,—had opinions upon all subjects, and expressed them freely. I have always believed I was her first serious anthropological study. At first, she accepted me with an immense qualification. My manifest bias in favor ofanimals was something new to her which she could not comprehend. To her practical mind, the petting of a dog and looking after his welfare was a perfect waste of time, while paying particular attention to the wants and care of a horse was something not to be thought of. I saw she was rapidly filling up to the bursting point with curiosity, but was too shy to ask the direct questions which she was anxious to put to me. As soon as occasion offered, I felt it my duty to give her an opportunity to free her mind, and, sitting out the rest of the “boarders” at my last “supper,” presented an opening for the point of the wedge to enter. By way of introduction, I mentioned my regrets at being compelled to leave the next morning.
“All the folks around here,” she frankly said, “will be sorry to hear it; you ain’t like anybody else we’ve everhad in this town, at least sence I can remember. Father and Tom, and all the rest of ’em that’s been watching of you, say you care more for critters than you do for human folks, and I think so too; ever sence I heard you talk to that dog of yourn I couldn’t make you out. We never had anything like that up here before, and one of the store fellers told me yesterday he thought you were one of them New York City chaps a little off, that had come on this ride for your health, and yit you talk sense about anything else except them critters of yourn, and that’s what puzzles the folks—to think that such a smart feller as you ’pear to be, should be clear gone off when you get to talking to the critters. And then there ain’t any sense in it, any way; you can talk to dogs and hosses all your life and never git an answer. They are dumb beasts, that’s all they be, and you can’t make’em folks if you try a thousand years. I’ll bet anything you ain’t got a wife. If you had, you wouldn’t be talking all this nonsense to critters all the time; if you had one worth a cent, you’d stay to home and talk to her, and let the critters take care of themselves, same as other folks do. Nothing like a good wife to take such wrinkles out of a man’s head! Why don’t you get married anyway? Right here in this town there are a lot of first-rate girls, better educated than I be, been to the high-school, and got as good learning as any of the city women, all dying to git married, and you can take your choice right here now. If you had one of our nice girls you wouldn’t need to have that darn fool of a dog round all the time for company.”
The latter part of this mind-freeing was earnest and emphatic, and I discovered between the spoken lines thetrue cause of the outburst. It was as clear as the noonday sun that she had a very poor opinion of an individual who preferred the company of a dog to the fascinations of fair woman, and she had made up her mind to let me know what she thought.
I ignored the nice girl part of the argument, and startled her by asking if she were a Christian. “’Spose I am, I try to be. I don’t know much about it anyhow. What makes you ask such an all-fired silly question? All the folks round here are Christians; we ain’t heathens any mor’n city folks.”
“Then it follows as a matter of course, you being a Christian, that you believe the Creator made Heavens and the earth and all things therein, and you do not believe he made anything in vain. All of his creations we see or know anything of were made for a purpose. The domestic animals wereintended for the use of human beings, and upon the list of those the horse stands first, because he is the most intelligent of the purely useful animals; but the dog is far ahead of him in every respect save physical power. His intelligence is of a high order, which entitles him to our respect, and he is the only animal that will leave his kind to associate with man; and there are thousands of instances recorded of his having sacrificed his life for those he loved. No other animal has ever been known to do that. The elephant, with his admitted capacity for acute reasoning, never defends his master unless ordered; on the contrary, he seldom misses an opportunity to kill those who have injured or offended him. The dog never does this; he bears no malice, and forgets and forgives injuries inflicted by those he loves, neither does he know distinction of condition orrank. He knows you are his master or mistress, and whether you are prince or peasant it matters not. The palace or the garret are the same to him, provided a kind master is to be found in either, and he shares with his master the feast or the crust with equal pleasure. The noble dog possesses the highest qualities. He gives you his loyal affection without reserve, never deceives you, and is true even unto death, and I hold we are indebted to him for giving us all that is good in his nature, for, the better you treat him, the more his fine qualities come to the surface. Am I not right?”
“Well, I swan; you’ve taken the breath all out of my body; I never heard such talk before. I don’t know what to say, and I can’t dispute you. You’ve got the whole thing by heart and let it out just like one of them revival exhorters that comes along hereevery once in a while. You’ve said a lot about animals I never heard before or thought of; nobody round here ever talks about ’em like you do. Why, you put the dog way up head of folks. From what you say, he’s ten times as decent as most men, and, if he could only talk, he would show us he could spell hard words and do the meanest sums in the ’rithmetic. At any rate, if dogs and horses and other sich like are as smart as you say they are, they ain’t got no feelings like we have—ain’t got sense enough to be sensitive and take on about pain and suffering like we do. You can’t make me b’leve any sich stuff as that anyhow.”
This is the point usually made by those who have never seriously considered the true nature and physical structure of animals. A cursory examination would prove to the most careless observer, that the organs and variousparts of the human organization are duplicated in the animals, especially in those of the domestic sort. The two points of difference are in form of body and the four legs given to the lower orders instead of two. The heart, lungs, bones, muscles, nerves, blood-vessels and brain are in each about the same. In the animal, for want of speech, the power of the brain is an unknown quantity, and the absence of that faculty of giving expression to thought constitutes the greatest difference between the species. Give the higher of the lower animals the power of speech, and possibly some men would take rank as the lower animal.
All this I explained to my audience of one, and, in addition, asserted that a cruel punishment of a physical nature inflicted upon a human being, if bestowed upon a dog, a horse or an ox would produce the same amount of painand suffering. If whipping is painless, why do all animals who have once been whipped jump aside and try to dodge the whip they see flourishing in the hands of those near them? The answer is, fear of pain. There is no other explanation of their action. Schoolboys dread the birch and ferule of the schoolmaster no more than a horse or an ox fears and dreads the whip of a driver.
“I declare this is all news to me,” my rural friend replied, “and you really have set me to thinking. I guess we ought to treat all sorts of animals, including the human, better than we do. I’ve been going to meeting sence I was old enough to go alone, and I never heard a minister say anything about loving animals and treating them decently—kinder like folks—do a lot of good if they did—’spose they think they ain’t paid for that sort of business and’ave got all they can do to save the souls of sinners.”
This was the last attempt at pure missionary work in behalf of the lower orders. The pleasure part of the excursion was about to end, and on the morning of the morrow the business of returning to the starting point was to commence in earnest. The return was made by a short series of long days’ work, commencing early in the morning, running well into the day, with rest in the middle, starting off again late in the afternoon, and extending well into the evening. In three days the return was finished, the whole excursion had lasted nearly three weeks—three joyous weeks, never again to be duplicated.
The most pleasurable hours of the little tour came from the association with my four-footed servants and companions. The gradual unfolding of their intelligence and the rapid developmentof their affection were never-failing sources of pleasure. Towards the last my calico horse would leave his feed, no matter how fascinating to his taste the oats might be, to be in my society, and the watchful dog was never away from my side, night or day. At first he shared the stable with his companion, but soon after, whenever he was ordered out for the night, his anxious, silent pleadings became so tender and touching that I could not withstand them, and I consented to his sharing my room with me. At first he had the natural dog habit of rising at an inconveniently early hour, but after being admonished of the irregularity of his behavior, he would remain quiet until ordered out for his morning exercise.
Never before or since had I been blessed with more sincere and disinterested friends—always anxious to serveand, seemingly, perfectly happy only when in my society.
Within a week after our return came the final parting between us, and I have never had more stings of conscience than I felt when closing the door of the little paradise my confiding friends were never to enter again. I parted with them in sorrow, filled with anxiety for their future, as well I might have been, for early the ensuing autumn my calico friend became again a “circus horse” and was heard of no more, and the other resumed the role of “nobody’s dog” and went down to his soulless (?) finality wishing, beyond all doubt, for another taste of his lost paradise.
During the whole of the winter of 1862 and 1863, I was in camp with my command at Falmouth, in front of Fredericksburg. The army was resting afterthe colossal and tragic fiasco at Fredericksburg to recover a new supply of strength and courage for the encounter with unknown blunders to come; and, aside from doing as many drills as the mud would permit, consuming rations and drawing pay, there was little to do. The winter proved to be a period of weary inactivity, with no crowns of victory in sight.
Late one stormy afternoon in the month of January, 1863, the orderly announced a civilian stranger who desired an interview. He told the orderly that his name was of no consequence and that his business was personal. Upon his entering my tent, I discovered a complete embodiment of limp weariness and sorrow, a palpable wreck of something better in the past.
Upon being seated, he said: “I ’spose you don’t know me? Well, I don’t blame you much, I’ve so changedsince then; we’ve had a great sorrow since your dog and horse scart that drove of cattle into the oats. Now I b’leve you remember, but you’d never guess I’m the same man, would you?”
I had to answer that the change was very great, and asked the cause.
“That’s partly what I am here for,” he replied. “You see, when the war first broke out, George, our oldest, you must remember him, a silent, good and thoughtful boy, was at the high school. All Vermont was alive with the right sort of feeling, and all the men and boys—and some of the women, I guess,—wanted to shoulder arms and go. We were expecting all the time to hear that George was going, but hoped the other way, and finally one morning in June he got out of the stage with his whole kit of books and clothes, and told his mother, whose eyes had already filled with tears, that he hadcome home to go; that all the big boys of the school had held a meeting, and agreed to enlist in the ‘Third,’ and he was going with them. Well, I thought his mother would sink into the ground then and there, but she didn’t. George, you know, was her favorite. He was always a reliable, duty-loving boy. She wiped her eyes, took him in her arms, and, while her heart was breaking, kissed him, and said: ‘I ‘spose you ought to go where right and your country calls, but it will be awful hard for me to part with you. I don’t know how I’m going to live with you in danger.’ The week he spent with us, I tell you, it was like a great shadow in that old house. His mother kept about, but her heart was breaking with terrible forebodings, and her eyes were always filling with tears. When he had stayed his week out, the last at the old home, we all drove over with him to the recruitingstation, and saw him sign his name to the roll of Company ——, Third Regiment, Vermont Volunteers, ‘for three years, or during the war.’ In three weeks the regiment left for the field; we went over to see him off, and he was the only happy one of the family. We were filled with unspeakable sadness; we saw them march away, and, as the old flag disappeared round the corner of the road, his mother fainted, and fell into my arms. She never saw a well day after that, but kind of lived on like a machine, taking no interest in anything but the newspapers bringing news from the war.
“George was just as good a boy in the army as he had always been at home, wrote encouraging letters to his mother, filled with ideas about duty, patriotism, and all that. But it did no good. She had made up her mind she would never see him again, and, althoughalive, he was as good as dead almost to her. When the Winter ended, the Vermont troops went with the army to Yorktown, and then came the dreadful 16th of April—Lees’ Mills. Three days after the fight some one sent a Boston paper to us, which gave the news of the first advance having been made by Companies —— and —— of the Third, and the terrible slaughter of the men, but gave no names. His mother knew her son was killed, and two days later a letter from his Captain told us how well he had done his duty, and how bravely he had died. The strain was more than she could bear, she took to her bed, and at the end of five weeks we buried them side by side, and my happiness along with them. Now do you see why I’ve changed?”
After a slight pause, he resumed: “I forgot to tell you,—the other boy, the one who talked to you about themeeting-house steeple five hundred feet high, enlisted in the same company as soon as he got old enough, is sick in the hospital here now, and I want to take him back home, and that’s what I’m here about. I want you to help me to get him out of the Army. He was a new recruit when he saw his brother killed, and hasn’t been well since. You know he never was a strong boy, but he would go to war to be with George. He wouldn’t consent to his brother facing danger all the time, while he was safe at home. He’s all I’ve got left, except my old father, who can’t last much longer, and they tell me if I can get you to go with me to General —— he’ll order his discharge.”
The sad story—one of many I had heard, touched me deeply. But I could offer no consolation, such wounds as his were too deep to be reached by words. All I could do was to change the currentof sad thoughts and extend the meagre hospitalities of the camp. Then the ride to the field hospital, the interview with the once bright, happy boy I had seen seven years before, now with the seal of death implanted upon his beautiful, honest and manly face, then to headquarters, the handing over of his discharge, and then the parting, with heavy heart, from one whose burden of sorrow I had been able to lighten.
Opportunities to do these acts of kindness for those kindred of the fallen, whose hearts were overburdened with mighty sorrows, were about the only rays of sunshine which ever invaded the tent life of those whose responsibilities were often more burdensome than the sorrows of others, which they were so often called upon to assuage.
In the summer of 1865, during another visit to my native town, a longing came over me to revisit the scene of theaccident to the oats, and I searched in vain for two companions to take the places of those of twelve years before. But, so far as I could ascertain, there was not a known saddle horse in the county, and the race of nobody’s dogs had gone quite out of fashion; so I was compelled to adopt the “buggy,” and, along with it, between its “fills,” a lively and “spunky” little specimen of a Vermont Morgan, that learned after the first hours of driving that there was a kind friend holding the reins, and with whom, from that moment, cordial relations were established. A very easy drive carried me to the “old home,” about noon of the second day, and, as I drove up to the door, a kindly faced, frank-mannered woman of middle age came out of the house, and asked me to alight, hitch, and walk in. As I entered I asked where they all were? “Who do you mean by all?” queried my hostess.I answered, “The C——s who lived here twelve years ago.”
She took me to an open window, and, pointing to the top of a “Meeting House” spire that came just above the point of a rise in the ground, said: “Just at the bottom of that steeple you’ll find them all, save my uncle C——, the grandfather of the boys; they are all buried there, and, if you want to renew your acquaintance with them, you’ll have to go over there to do it. I’m the old maid of the whole family, and taught school until I came here right after Cousin George’s death—he was the last of the four—to take care of uncle, who was awfully broken up, and is to this day. I guess nothing but death will ever mend his broken heart. He wanders about with no object in life, always wishing for the end to come. He’s out in the fields somewhere; he will be here pretty soon andawful glad to see you. It seems to me he only cares now for those who knew the four who lie buried over there. He lives in the past altogether, and takes no interest in the present or future.”
A walk of five minutes through a meadow to a group of maples brought me to the spot where I found, reclining beneath the shades, my acquaintance of other days. At first he did not recognize me, and was a little offish, but gradually became interested, and at last came to me with both hands extended and with eyes filled with tears:
“I didn’t know ye at first, but I oughter have known that voice anywhere. Your animals scart the drove into the oats, but you were so good to us afterward. If it hadn’t been for you, ‘Vin’ would have died in that ere hospital, for he didn’t live long after we got him home. Oh, he was sich a comfort to us while he did live. I shall neverforgit the last days; and may God spare me from ever goin’ through any more like ’em.”
While we were walking toward the house, I learned that Vincent, the youngest boy, lived five weeks after he was brought home; that the father died the next autumn, and, although nearly three years had passed since the culmination of the “Great Sorrow,” the atmosphere seemed impregnated with it. The want of signs of life and movement without, and the evidence of long continued quiet and order within, told as plainly as words the story of an all-absorbing grief.
During the dinner, the incidents of the oats, the conversation with “Vin” about the steeple, his desire to trade for the “Kaliker” horse, and all that was said upon the occasion of our first meeting, was rehearsed, without a single item being omitted. The meal finished,there came the walk to the “Meeting House Burying Ground,” where I saw the seven simple headstones standing for four generations. The first to Mary Gale, wife of G. C.; the second to “George C., a soldier of the Revolutionary War, born at Old Middlebury, Mass., June 12, 1756, died in this town, March 7, 1833;” next to him came his daughter-in-law; then a vacant space for his son—the second George, and then the graves of the other four of the third and fourth generation.
I have seen men stand in such a presence without being moved, but I could never quite understand how they did it. Upon this occasion something got into my throat, and I could not speak; something else filled both eyes, and I had to turn away to conceal a weakness which I could not control.
As I turned toward my companions,the elder, pointing to the line exclaimed; “Pretty soon there’ll be four generations of Georges in this lot, and that’s about all there is to it, I guess. There couldn’t be any design in takin’ all of ’em from me in so short a time. A merciful God wouldn’t have done such a cruel thing; if a kind God had had anything to do with it, he would let some of ’em outlive me to have been a comfort in my old age and to have kept the old place where we were all born in the family name. No, I don’t b’leve in sich kindness; all of ’em ought to have lived; they were jest as good as they could be, not one of ’em ever told a lie or did a mean thing as long as they lived. Then if they were so good, as they were, and nobody can dispute it, why were they all taken away from me so soon, and so many mean critters, good for nothing to nobody, allowed to live? No, the ministersmay talk to me from now to the end of eternity, that their God, if he really does sich cruelties, is merciful, and I won’t b’leve ’em. It’s all nonsense to murder a man alive and break his old heart and call it merciful and all for the best. There is no mercy or best about it, it’s all wrong from beginnin’ to end, and I don’t b’leve the heathen’s god or anybody’s God could be so cruel and unjust.
“My father battled from Bunker Hill ’till the last Red Coat had left the land and then came here and began a new battle with the virgin forests of Vermont. And ever sence I was born and old enough to work, my sweat has watered this soil so dear to all of us. There’s not a foot of the cleared part of this old farm I have not worked over, and the whole of it is as sacred in my eyes as if it were a lordly estate handed down from scores of generations beforeme. The boys loved it as I do and liked to work over it. Now what does it all amount to? In a short time when I have passed over yender to join the rest on ’em, the old place will go into the hands of unfeeling strangers who’ll care no more about it than savages. Most likely they’ll rob the soil and skin it of the last spear of grass, and all these noble old trees that have been my friends sence I was a boy, will be cut down to feed the nearest sawmill. It’s astonishing, how mean most folks act toward natur! They treat her as though she had no rights and forgit all about the good things she gives us. But I suppose there is no good in sentiment if God is agin ye.”
His niece interrupted him gently: “Come away, uncle, you are nervous and excited and saying too much.”
“No, I’m not nervous or excited; I’m saying what I b’leve, and I wanteverybody to know it. Look at those graves holding all I had in the world, and no one had better, and then tell me if I have no cause to complain?”
Very late in the year 1848—Christmas day, to be exact—I found myself in New Orleans, bankrupt in health and looking forward, hopelessly, to a seemingly not far off culmination of my earthly affairs. But, owing to the possession of a strong constitution, the good offices of kind friends, and careful medical treatment, I was enabled to disappoint the prophets and to evade the undertaker. By the time I had regained my feet, the balmy days of March had come around, and Iimproved the opportunity to make my duty-calls upon the kind-hearted friends who had taken an active interest in the welfare of a stranger who had been cast upon their shores. I found them wonderfully to my liking, generous, cordial, and frank, to a degree I had never dreamed of.
It was fortunate for me that I happened to become a denizen of that interesting old city during one of its better periods. Socially it was at high-water mark; the theatres were good and the French opera the better of all outside of Paris. In the winter it was the rendezvous for the well-to-do families of the whole far South. The rich cotton planters from Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama, and the sugar planters from along the “coast” came to this Southern metropolis, and brought with them their pretty daughters with their velvety voices, unaffected speech, garnishedwith its tint of African accent, and their frank, disingenuous ways; and also came their sons, who were not so fascinating, but were good fellows at heart—the majority of them—and, as a rule, save for one weakness, they were all right. But they had the unpleasant habit of “drawing at sight,” and to the credit of their alertness, I am compelled to record that they were apt to see very quick.
The presence of a large colony of well-to-do planters assisted to make New Orleans a very attractive winter resort. But they were not more given to pleasure than the average citizen of the place, who, as a rule, did not take life very seriously. He was in business, but not its slave, and each day brought with it its pleasurable recreation. With their peculiar and novel ways they were, to me, a revelation; the community made up of themseemed almost ideal, and had it not been for the presence of the slave and the slave market, the old French city, in its relation to a certain select few, could have passed for a kind of brick and mortar Arcadia.
Among the favorite recreations of that period was a drive down the shell road to Lake Ponchartrain, where there was a famous afternoon resort kept by Capt. Dan Hicox, a once famous “Captain on the Lakes,” a teller of good stories and fabricator of the best fish and game dinners and suppers to be found in the whole South. To say that his establishment was popular would give but a faint idea of the real conditions. Of a pleasant afternoon, in certain seasons of the year, nearly all that was jolliest and brightest in New Orleans society could be found sitting upon the captain’s piazzas, enjoying the breezes of the lake, which were usually temperedwith something taken through a straw or drawn from the upper end of a bottle recently from the ice-chest.
In addition to the usual attractions of such a resort, there was a circular pen with a pole planted in the centre of it to which was attached a certain two-thirds grown specimen of the common American black bear. When the merest mite of a cub he had been captured in the wilds of Michigan, and afterwards sent to “Captain Dan” as a present by one of his old friends of the lakes.
“Tim” was a great pet and altogether comical. He found a comic side to every incident which came under his observation, and, seemingly, never had a serious thought or an unhappy moment. It might be said of him that he was reared in luxury, for during his infancy he had a pleasant corner of the bar-room for his abode, where he became the pet of the patrons and therecipient of all kinds of good things from the larder, with now and then a taste from the bottle arranged in a way to fit his appetite, and very much to his liking.
In the interests of truthful history, it must be recorded that “Tim,” within a short time after his first julep, became enamored of the bottle, and, very much after the manner of the old style Southern bar-room tippler, would watch the patrons of the bar, looking wistfully into their faces for an invitation to “smile.” At the beginning of his career as an habitual drinker, it took about six or seven “treats” to put him in a state of good-natured inebriation. When in that condition, he was the incarnation of animal happiness; lying upon his back with all four feet in the air, head to one side, tongue half out of his wide-open mouth, with eyes half closed, he was the perfect personification of good nature and indifferenceto earthly happenings. Kings might rule the world, but Tim’s happiness was supreme. He envied no other bear, and if a tree trunk filled with the most delicious honey had been within easy reach he would not have raised a paw for a barrel of it. The things of this world troubled him not, and he possessed only one phase of the great passion of avarice—he always, when sober, wanted enough strong drink to make him happy. He had the appetite of the habitual human drunkard, but, when in his cups, differed from his humanconfrèrein one important particular; he was good natured and kind and never quarrelsome or cruel like the human brute in a similar condition.
Sometimes, when he was floored, a friend would try to coax him to another drink by temptingly placing a well-filled glass near his nose, an invitation that would generally excite in him aneffort to rise and a very comical and unsteady attempt to follow the lead of the disappearing glass; usually he would wobble over, but would right himself enough to sit up and gaze intently after the fascinating beverage beyond his reach. In respect to demeanor or quantity, he was quite human; he never knew he was making a beast of himself, or when he had enough. I do not pretend to say that Tim’s habits of drink were not reprehensible; for the purposes of this true story he must have the blame. It was certainly not the fault of his master; he simply suffered the usual penalty of having too many thoughtless and convivial friends.
In course of time, Tim became quite a bear, altogether too large for a bar-room pet, and was removed to a specially prepared pen and chained to a pole with a platform rest at the top.The change for Tim was not a success. He spent his time in running around and climbing up and down his pole, all the time whining, pleading, and scolding; he grew thin, and looked and acted as though he regarded life as a failure. Occasionally, a friend, pitying his unhappy condition, would unchain him and lead him to his old haunt. In fact, it was nearly impossible to lead him in any other direction. As soon as released from his pole he would start for the bar-room, dragging his friend with him, nor would he stop until he reached his favorite room, when, standing up with his hands on the counter, he would mumble out in his most intelligible bear-language a peremptory demand for a drink. Sometimes he was indulged to an extent which would enable him to catch a glimpse of his lost paradise, but usually he was returned to his pen after having disposedof only enough of his favorite beverage to give him an appetite for more.
It had often been suggested that if Tim could have a congenial occupation his grief for his lost liberty would not be so acute. Accidentally, an employment for all his spare time was forced upon him.
One day, during a great thunderstorm, when the wind was blowing strong from the east, a small alligator, about six feet long, was carried by a wave to a part of the piazza near where I was sitting. He undertook to get back into the lake with the receding water, but, being determined to detain him, I caught him by the end of the tail. Within half of a second the problem of extremes meeting was solved. As soon as he felt my hold he doubled himself around, brought his jaws to-together with a savage snap, and camewithin an infinitesimal measure of catching my hand. By that time my blood was up, and I made up my mind to effect a capture of my belligerent caller. With the use of a strong chair for a weapon, I succeeded in preventing his return to the lake. Soon assistance with a rope arrived, and a tight-drawn noose around the upper jaw did the rest. “De ’gater swished dat tail a’ his awfully Massa, but we done got him sure,” was the announcement that conveyed to “Captain Dan” the information that he was the owner of a “’gater.” Our captive was put in a safe place for the night, and the next morning what to do with him became the burning question.
After considerable discussion a valuable suggestion came from one of the colored spectators. He said: “I reckon if dat ’gater and Tim had a chance dey’d make fust-rate frens inside aweek.” A unanimous vote approved of the proposition, and in five minutes “de ’gater was in de pen” and the gate closed.
It was Tim’s custom whenever he heard company approaching his place of abode to meet them at the threshold. Upon this occasion, as usual, he was ready to bestow the hospitalities of his establishment, but the manner of his receiving was neither urbane nor graceful. His front door was suddenly opened and an unwelcome guest unceremoniously thrust upon the hospitality of the unsuspecting Tim, who was wholly unprepared for such a visitor. It was his first experience with a Saurian. He had never seen one before, and it took only a second for him to make up his mind to pass the act of non-intercourse. He scampered to his pole and climbed to his platform at the top, where, during the next twenty-fourhours, he remained an anxious and frightened observer.
The new arrangement was no more satisfactory to the guest than to the host. He missed his shore promenades and bathing accommodations; could not imagine why he was shut up in a small enclosure, and spent his first day and night in searching for an opening large enough for him to crawl through. By noon of his second day of confinement he gave up his fruitless search and settled down to a midday repose.
Tim, weary with anxious watching, seeing his opportunity for an investigation, cautiously descended to the ground, and noiselessly approached near enough to his guest to reach him with a front paw; then, for several minutes, he sat upon his haunches and made a very careful diagnosis of the case before him and came to the conclusion that it was not to his liking, and that he wouldhave no more of it than he could help. Acting upon this deliberately formed conclusion, he made a vicious grab with both paws at the tail of the unsuspecting Saurian. Great was his surprise to find that his victim was very wide awake, indeed, for no sooner had he felt the disturbance at his caudal end than he sent his open jaws around to ascertain the cause. This sudden flank movement was a great surprise to Tim, who experienced considerable difficulty in extracting one of his paws from the ample jaws of a “feller” that at least one bear could not understand. Tim was not encouraged to another investigation at the moment, but re-ascended to his throne, where he spent the remainder of the day in licking the wounded paw, casting, now and then, malicious glances at his unbidden guest, and concocting plans for the future.
The next day was bright and sunny,and brought with it apparent peace to the domain of Tim. The Saurian was calmly reposing in the sunshine, and Tim was doing his best thinking. He had not quite decided as to the manner of proceeding, but upon one point he had made up his mind. There was to be no middle way. His enemy was to be conquered and the savage attack upon his paw avenged. With his mind then fully made up he descended for a second investigation and another possible attack. This time his approach was doubly guarded, and he was particularly careful in calculating the distance between his position and the jaws which had given him such an unpleasant surprise.
After a deliberate survey of the situation, Tim made a sudden spring to the side of his enemy, caught him under his chest, and turned him upon his back. This side attack was unexpectedand a perfect success, and the reptile had an active and prolonged struggle to regain his natural position. Tim watched the struggle with intense interest, seeming to be happy in knowing that he held the key to the situation. From that time on, his guest during the daylight hours had no peace. Whenever Tim had an opportunity, he turned him over, and, when not engaged in that diversion, he was chasing him around the enclosure. About one month of such an existence brought the Saurian very near to his end. From a most healthy and vigorous “’gater” at the time he was caught he had become weak, weary and lank; so forlorn was his lamentable condition that he excited the sympathy of some human friend, who, during the night, opened the gate to the pen. The following morning the persecuted reptile was nowhere to be found. From that momentTim became his former self, watched anxiously at the gate for the coming of friends, and pleaded pertinaciously for the intoxicating beverage.
The summer and greater part of the autumn after the “’gater” incident, I spent at the Mississippi Springs, and, while there, received a letter from a friend, who, next to myself, was the most ardent admirer Tim ever had. It was the last word relating to my comical four-footed intimate, and I cannot close this truthful narration more appropriately than by quoting from it:
“You will sympathize with me in our mutual loss. Probably, we have seen the last of our old friend Tim; he departed from his well scratched pole about two weeks ago, and is now on the road as an important item in ‘The Most Colossal Show Ever Known.’ He had grown so large, and his appetite for strong drink had increased tosuch an alarming extent, that the attending darkies lost confidence in their ability to handle him. During his later days at the Lake, he appeared to have but one idea, and that related to opportunities for intoxication. Whenever his pen door opened, no matter for what purpose, he would make a rush for whoever came in, and demand to be led to the bar-room, and, if disappointed, would make a most furious demonstration.
“‘Captain Dan’ was immensely attached to him, but felt that the time had arrived when some disposition must be made of him. The menagerie at Algiers was the opportunity. A bargain was struck, and the time fixed for his departure.
“‘Captain Dan’ decided to give him a regular ‘Fourth of July’ send-off, and, to that end, invited a few of his most intimate friends and admirers to bepresent at the performance. The guests were assembled, and Tim was released from his pole. He made a tremendous rush for the open bar-room door dragging two stalwart Africans after him at a break-neck pace. He went direct to his old corner where he found a large tin pan filled with a milk-punch such as he had never tasted before. He emptied it in short order and then, taking it between his paws, sat up, licked the last reminiscence of the punch out of it, and in a few moments became the most comical object imaginable. In fact he was never known to be more funny. He was laughed at, poked with sticks, had his ears pulled, but all to no purpose; he was too happy to be offended. He made a few efforts to stand erect and to appear sober and dignified, but ended each attempt by rolling over upon his back a helpless lump of limp intoxication.
“In that condition, our old friend was bundled into a box on wheels, and made ready for his departure to the new life. Before going we all shook him by the paw, patted his head, and wished him a happy future, and, as he disappeared in the distance, there was a general expression of regret that we had seen the last of poor Tim. ‘Captain Dan’s’ lip trembled, and I feel sure if he had had it to do over again, he wouldn’t have done it.”
This parting with Tim proved to be the end of his connection with the friends of his babyhood and youth: none of them so far as I know, ever saw him again.
Possibly a little bit of a lesson may be shown from the simple life described. Tim, no doubt, came of decent parents of good habits and morals, and in his downfall, there was no question of heredity involved. In his infancyhe was placed within easy reach of the temptations of the bowl, and so, in his manhood, became as much of a victim to strong drink as his surrounding circumstances would permit. Therefore, the inference is, if he had not been tempted, there would have been no fall, and Tim would have led a sober life and have been a respectable member of bear society, provided human beings had left him in the home intended for his race.
His degradation, like that of the North American Indian, came from contact with our superior Western civilization.
The Ninth New York Volunteers was organized in April, 1861, in the City of New York. Two of its companies were extra-territorial. C was composed of men from Hoboken and Paterson, New Jersey, and G marched into the regimental headquarters fully organized from the town of Fort Lee in that State. With this last named company came “Carlo,” the subject of this sketch.
When he joined the regiment, he had passed beyond the period of puppy-hood and was in the full flush of doglybeauty. He was large, not very large,—would probably have turned the scales at about fifty pounds. His build was decidedly “stocky,” and, as horsey men would say, his feet were well under him; his chest was broad and full, back straight, color a warm dark brindle, nose and lips very black, while he had a broad, full forehead and a wonderful pair of large, round, soft, dark-brown eyes. Add to this description an air of supreme, well-bred dignity, and you have an idea of one of the noblest animals that ever lived. His origin was obscure; one camp rumor asserted that he was born on board of a merchant ship while his mother was making a passage from Calcutta to New York; and another told of a beautiful mastiff living somewhere in the State of New Jersey that had the honor of bringing him into the world. It would be very interesting to know something of theparentage of our hero, but, since the facts surrounding his birth are unattainable, we must content ourselves with telling a portion of a simple story of a good and noble life. It may be safe to assert that he was not a native American; if he had been, he would have provided himself with the regulation genealogical tree and family coat-of-arms.
During the first part of his term of service, Carlo was very loyal to his Company, marched, messed, and slept with it, but he was not above picking up, here and there, from the mess tents of the other Companies a tid-bit, now and then, which proved acceptable to a well-appointed digestion.
His first tour on guard was performed as a member of the detail from Co. G, and always afterward, in the performance of that duty, he was most faithful. No matter who else might belate, he was ever on time when the call for guard mount was sounded, ready to go out with his own particular squad. At first, he would march back to Company quarters with the old detail, but, as soon as he came to realize the value and importance of guard duty, he made up his mind that his place was at the guard tent and on the patrol beat, where he could be of the greatest service in watching the movements of the enemy. In the performance of his duties as a member of the guard, he was very conscientious and ever on the alert. No stray pig, wandering sheep, or silly calf could pass in front of his part of the line without being investigated by him. It is possible that his vigilance in investigating intruding meats, was sharpened by the hope of substantial recognition in the way of a stray rib extracted from the marauding offender whose ignorance of army customsin time of war had brought their tender “corpuses” too near our lines.
As a rule, Carlo, what with his guard duties and other purely routine items, managed to dispose of the day until dress parade. At that time he appeared at his best, and became the regimental dog. No officer or soldier connected with the command more fully appreciated “The pomp and circumstance of great and glorious war” than he. As the band marched out to take position previous to playing for the Companies to assemble, he would place himself alongside the drum-major, and, when the signal for marching was given, would move off with stately and solemn tread, with head well up, looking straight to the front. Upon those great occasions, he fully realized the dignity of his position, and woe betide any unhappy other dog that happened to get in front of the marching band. Whenupon the parade field, he became, next to the Colonel, the commanding officer, and ever regarded himself as the regulator of the conduct of those careless and frivolous dogs, that go about the world like the streetgamin—having no character for respectability or position in society to sustain.
Of those careless ne’er-do-wells the regiment had accumulated a very large following. As a rule, they were harmless and companionable, and, like the inevitable “befo’ de wah” Judge and Major, they were always on hand ready for a free lunch and drink. It was only at dress parade that they made themselves over-officious. Each Company was attended to the parade ground by its particular family of canine companions, and, when all of them had assembled, the second battalion of the regiment would make itself known by a great variety of jumpings, caperings,barks of joy, and cries of delight. To this unseasonable hilarity Carlo seriously objected, and his demeanor plainly told the story of his disgust at the conduct of the silly pates of his race. He usually remained a passive observer until the exercise in the manual of arms, at which particular period in the ceremonies, the caperings and the barkings would become quite unendurable. Our hero would then assume the character of a preserver of the peace. He would make for the nearest group of revellers, and, in as many seconds, give a half a dozen or more of them vigorous shakes, which would set them to howling, and warn the others of the thoughtless tribe of an impending danger. Immediately the offenders would all scamper to another part of the field, and remain quiet until the dress parade was over. This duty was self-imposed and faithfully performed upon many occasions.After the parade was dismissed Carlo would march back to quarters with his own Company, where he would remain until the last daily distribution of rations, whereupon, after having disposed of his share, he would start out upon a tour of regimental inspection, making friendly calls at various Company quarters and by taps turning up at the headquarters of the guard. His duties ended for the day, he would enjoy his well-earned rest until reveille, unless some event of an unusual nature, occurring during the night, disturbed his repose and demanded his attention.
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 CourtHouse, 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.