IX.

MILITARY PETS.

Ælian tells us that among the Greeks at Marathon fought one soldier who had a favorite hound. As the two were friends and fellow-soldiers in life, so in death they still lay side by side upon that immortal battle field. And, says Ælian, their effigies were placed together on the memorial tablet, to the end that their fame might live long after their bodies were dust.

Was it not finely done—to commemorate with the man that died for his country the animal that died for his master?

There have been many similar instances of canine devotion; yet it must be confessed that with dogs as with men, less lofty motives occasionally lead them into war. A restless, happy-go-lucky turn of mind has inspired many a four-footed one with the wish to be a soldier, and carried him with credit through the campaigns.

Pure adventurousness animated Bobby, a pet of the Scotch Fusileers, and gave him a fame out of all proportion to the small body now preserved in the United Service Museum in London.

In this curious and little known collection there are manyinteresting objects—from the sword which Cromwell used with such fatal energy at Drogheda, to a petticoat once worn by Queen Elizabeth. Why the latter should be in a military museum it is hard to say, unless, indeed, it is regarded in the light of feminine armor. But Bobby’s right to be there is indefeasible. A dog of war, he can rest better nowhere than amidst the military surroundings so dear to him in life. Very sagacious he looks, seated dog-fashion on his haunches, and gazing alertly forward with a knowing cock of the head.

Of low degree—a mere butcher’s dog—he nevertheless, like Napoleon, possessed a great soul in a little body. All he needed to rise from the ranks was an opportunity, and erelong it came. When, in the spring of 1853, a battalion of the Scots Fusileer Guards was stationed at Windsor, Bobby began to haunt the barracks. The butcher, his master, came for him several times and took him home, only to find his place vacant again the next day. He yielded at last to the inevitable, and Bobby went his way without hindrance. A soldier he would be; a soldier he was; and, as his True History relates, never failed to be first on parade, and was always ready to forage. In 1854 he embarked on the Simoon with his friends for the Crimea. The first day out, he came near being thrown overboard as a vagrant, but being claimed by the entire battalion, was allowed to stay.

BOBBY, THE DOG WHO WOULD BE A SOLDIER.

He served at Malta, Scutari and Varna; was returned as missing from the Alma, but reappeared in time for the wild battle storm of Balaklava. Surviving this, he was heard of next at Inkermann, where he proved his courage by chasing spent cannon balls over the bloody field. A medal rewarded this feat, and was worn by him suspended from a collar of Fusileer buttons linked together in a chain. He was present at several other battles; and when,after the fall of Sebastopol, the battalion returned to England, Bobby marched into London at its head—the observed of all observers.

And now it might be supposed that he would rest on his laurels and grow old in peace. Alas! he had escaped from Balaklava only to meet destiny in London. In 1860 he was run over by a cart, and instantly killed. Some say it was a butcher’s cart—which would imply a certain prosaic justice in his fate—the profession he had scorned thus avenging itself.

The poodle Moustache enhanced the glories of the Consulate and Empire. He was present at Marengo and at Jena; he once detected a spy; he saved several lives; and finally, at Austerlitz, when the standard-bearer of his regiment fell mortally wounded, he sprang forward, seized the colors from the very grasp of the enemy, and bore them in triumph to his fellow-soldiers. It was the deed of a hero, and its recompense was such as heroes love. Maréchal Lannes received Moustache upon the field of battle, praised him, thanked him in the name of all, and then, bending down, fastened to his neck—the cross of the Legion of Honor!

Another dog of war was Pincher, who accompanied the Forty-second Highlanders. In the days when Napoleon’s empire hung trembling in the balance, this valiant terrier threw his own small influence into the scale against him, and gallantly barked and capered at Quatre Bras until wounded by a ball. Even then he refused to leave, and waited on the field for his friends. Somewhat later he charged with the Forty-second at Waterloo, came off unhurt from that tremendous field, entered Paris with the allies, and in 1818 brought his laurels home to Scotland. As in Bobby’s case, accident closed the life which the chances of war had spared: while out rabbit-hunting, poor Pincher by mistake was shot.

Then there was Dash, who served in the Royal African Corps, and made it his special mission to examine the sentry rounds, and wake up any sentinel who might be napping at his post. Many a drowsy soldier had occasion to thank him, and he remained chief favorite with the corps until his death.

Dogs have distinguished themselves in the navy as well as on land. Sir John Carr tells the story of a Newfoundland on the English ship Nymph. During an engagement with the French ship Cleopatra, the men at first tried to keep their pet below. In vain; he escaped them, and ran up on deck, barking furiously, with every sign of warlike rage. When the Cleopatra struck her colors, he was among the foremost to board her, and promenaded her deck with a proud and lofty air, as one who felt that his share in the victory was not small.

Another Newfoundland, well named Victor, served on the Bellona, in the battle of Copenhagen. So courageous and cheerful was his mien amidst flying balls and smoke and roar of cannon, that the men could not refrain from cheering him, even in the hottest of the action. After peace was signed at Amiens and the troops were paid off, the men of the Bellona had a farewell dinner on shore.

Honorably mindful of their four-footed comrade, seat and plate were kept for Victor at the table. And there he sat, dignified and sedate, among the veterans, sharing their roast beef and plum-pudding. They drank his health, too, and doubtless he responded in his own fashion to the toast. Finally, the bill was made out in his proper name, and—but here the parallel with human “diners out” ceases. It was settled by an adoring crowd of friends.

Another naval hero was Admiral Collingwood’s Bounce, who barked stoutly through various battles, and who to undoubtedcourage joined no inconsiderable amount of vanity. After his master was raised to the peerage, Bounce put on all the airs which the sensible admiral had dispensed with—behaving, said the latter, as though he, too, had become a “right honorable.”

But the most delightful dog of war within my knowledge is little Toutou of the French Zouaves. Once upon a time, when they were to leave France for Genoa, an order was passed, forbidding dogs on shipboard. Fancy the dismay of these pet-loving soldiers! What could be done? Each man, as his name was called, had to pass into the ship by a narrow gangway, with officers stationed at each end; and to conceal a dog under such circumstances was clearly impossible. At this crisis some inventive genius suggested unscrewing the drums, and concealing within them as many as possible of their pets. No sooner thought of than done; and so far, well. But now, like a thunderbolt out of a serene sky, came the horrid order: “Let the regiment embark to the sound of fife and drum!”

There was no escape; the drums must be beat, and they were. Simultaneously with the sound, and smothering it, arose a lengthened, ear-piercing howl.

“What! Where!” cried the officers in consternation.

No sign of a dog anywhere, yet the louder the drums resounded the louder swelled the canine chorus. At last a spaniel fell out of an imperfectly screwed drum, and the stratagem was revealed. Then, amidst roars of laughter, each drummer was obliged to advance alone, and beat his instrument. If there was an answering howl, the drum was at once unscrewed and its occupant ejected.

Only one dog ran the gauntlet successfully, and this was Toutou. Again and again the drum was struck in which he lay concealed, but only its own reverberations answered, and thedrummer passed unsuspected. Once fairly out at sea, his pet was released. He remained with the Third Zouaves throughout the war; and when at its close they entered Paris, who should be seen proudly marching at their head but Toutou, the dog whom the drum-taps could not scare!

A dog-loving soldier in our own army was the Hungarian General Asboth, a man of indomitable fire and courage. “Stilled, saddened, but not bitter,” says Mrs. Frémont, “he held fast to his faith in the progress of liberty. It was only natural that stray dogs should meet with kindness from him.” Two special favorites, York and Cream, were afterwards left by him to this lady’s care. Anything canine was dear to his heart:

“Mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,And cur of low degree,”

“Mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,

And cur of low degree,”

and it came to be well understood in camp that all stray dogs were to be brought to the general. He was a noticeable figure, riding the rounds in a suit of white linen and great cavalry boots, with a noisy four-footed retinue at his heels.

From an eye-witness comes the following story. General Asboth returned one day from a scouting expedition with a bullet through his shoulder; and as there had been little fighting up to this time, the accident was a great event. There happened to be in camp a young volunteer captain of engineers on “detached duty.” Swelling with a pleasant sense of his own importance, he thought proper at this crisis to call and offer his services. The old general thanked him: “Mine own officers are very good,” said he; “they do everythings for me. But, Captain, there is a thing; if you would go through the camp and find my little dog-pup which was stole, I would be so much obliged.”

This chance of distinction was not appreciated. “At last accounts,” said my informant, “he had not yet begun to search for the ‘little dog-pup,’ and the remarks he made in private were quite frightful to hear.”

From Asboth to Frémont is a natural transition. They were friends and comrades; they had in common the traits of courage and enthusiasm; they had a like disdain of pettiness, and capacity for silent endurance; and they had also, as you might expect in natures so sound at core, a great affection for animals.

“For ourselves,” writes Mrs. Frémont, “dogs have always been part of the family. I do not know, indeed, how boys can be happy without them.... To the General some of ours were friends and companions, especially a noble staghound, Thor. They walked together, they could talk together; a sort of Indian sign-language belonging with old experiences made Mr. Frémont proficient in sign and eye language, and Thor knew that.

“Thor’s father, Thor the First, belonged to Charlotte Cushman, and for years was part of the hunt in the Campagna around Rome. She brought her dog home, and thinking death near her, gave it to a friend of mine who had a beautiful Scotch deer-hound of pure breed, Sheila by name. Sheila had been given to my friend’s brother-in-law, an officer on duty in Arizona, at Yuma, by an Englishman who came there intending to hunt. Fancy hounds coursing over that cactus!

“Our Thor was son to the traveled Sheila and Miss Cushman’s dog, who had traveled also, but in civilized places. We took him with us to Arizona, and there he died, of fever partly, partly of old age, for he was eleven, and hounds give out young. He was nearly human in intelligence—more than human in loyal attachment and undeviating memory. He and Pluto, a thorough-bredcoursing hound, were the two who were longest with and closest to the whole family.

“Pluto was own cousin to Master Magrath, the famous hound. He was a gentler nature every way than Thor, who was grand, dignified, without attachments or associates except in his (our) own family; reserved, and withdrawing himself from all attentions—even those of our friends. Yet he had intense devotion to the General, to both my sons, and to my daughter, and was very fond of me too, but in an indulgent sort of way, because I belonged with the rest. He had sense and a faithful heart. The latter gave him great pain; for to a dog you cannot explain that a parting is not necessarily final; and it was saddening to see his distress when the General would go away in Arizona. And when after weeks or months he returned, there was always a general rush to move small tables, etc., out of range, for Thor would go wild over him, leaping up to lick his face, jumping wildly about him, putting his great paws on the General’s shoulders, and rubbing his grizzled muzzle against the General’s face, with cries almost human, and painful, hysterical joy. Everything had to give way to him. He had to be petted and quieted down like an excited baby; but even in his sleep, afterwards, he would cry out and quiver all over, and the waking would be a subdued repetition of the first joy. Thor’s name is never carelessly mentioned even now, six years after his death.”

Mrs. Frémont has also commemorated, in her “Story of the Guard,” a little terrier named Corporal, which belonged to the band of gallant young men known as General Frémont’s Body-Guard. He was not pure-bred, but that did not matter—sense and fidelity being happily independent of birth. He had joined the Guards while they were in camp at St. Louis, became a generalfavorite, and when they made their splendid charge at Springfield, Mo., charged with them. The wild dash over, he remained on the field all night with a wounded soldier, sped away for help when morning dawned, coaxed and pulled until he persuaded a man to follow, and thus succeeded in saving his friend’s life. In memory of this brave deed the men bought him a collar, bright as red leather and silver could make it, with the inscription:

Corporal,

The Body-guard’s Dog.

Springfield, Oct., 1861.

But although dogs are such good soldiers, they are no braver than horses; while Pussy, their hereditary rival, keeps fairly abreast with them in war as in peace. The Grenadiers’ Cat was contemporary with Bobby, a courageous sharer in several hard-fought battles, and one of the lamented slain at Balaklava. Another regimental cat was found by Colonel Stuart Wortley, after the storming of the Malakoff, with one foot pinned to the earth by a bayonet. He took her to a surgeon, who dressed the wounded paw; and after her recovery, adopting her preserver, she used to follow the colonel “all over the camp, with her tail carried stiff in the air.”

Deer, and even lambs, have served in the army with credit, we are told. One military deer “liked biscuit. But he always knew if a biscuit had been breathed on, and if it had he would not touch it. He was very fond of music, and used to march in front of the band. Sometimes a person would come in between him and the band, and he would seem to be quite cross about it.”

An unusual pet, which like the king never dies, is the goat of the Royal Welsh Fusileers. When one goat ceases to be, anotherimmediately succeeds him. The incumbent now, alas! deceased, and whose portrait is given here, was a fine white Billy from the royal herd at Windsor, presented to the regiment by the queen. Apropos of his decease, an officer wrote at some length in the London Graphic concerning these famous goats. He quoted from the Military Antiquities of Grose, showing them to be an ancient institution.

“The Royal Regiment of Welsh Fusileers has the privileged honor of passing in review preceded by a goat with gilded horns and adorned with ringlets of flowers; and although this may not come immediately under the denomination of a reward of merit, yet the corps values itself much on the ancientness of the custom.

THE DEER THAT MARCHED AHEAD.

“Every first of March, being the anniversary of their tutular saint, David, the officers give a splendid entertainment to their Welsh brethren; and after the cloth is taken away a bumper is filled round to H. R. H. the Prince of Wales, whose health is always drunk the first on that day; the band playing the old tune of ‘The Noble Race of Shenkin,’ when a handsome drummer-boy, elegantly dressed, mounted on the goat, richly caparisoned for the occasion, is led thrice round the table in procession by the drum-major.

“It happened in 1775, in Boston, that the animal gave such a spring from the floor that he dropped his rider upon the table, and then bounding over the heads of some officers, he ran to the barracks with all his trappings, to the no small joy of the garrison.”

The officer goes on to say that “the same goat which threw the drummer accompanied the regiment into action at Bunker’s Hill, when the Welsh Fusileers had all their officers except one placedhors de combat. What became of the Bunker’s Hill goat, we do not know; nor can we say how many successors he had between the years 1775 and 1844. In the latter year the regimental goat died, and to compensate the Twenty-third for its loss, Her Majesty presented the regiment with two of the finest goats belonging to a flock—the gift of the Shah of Persia—in Windsor Park. Since that date the queen has continued to supply the Royal Welsh Fusileers with goats as occasion has required. Billy—‘Her Majesty’s Goat,’ as he is styled—bears between his horns a handsome silver shield or frontlet, surrounded by the Prince of Wales’ plumes and motto, with the inscription: ‘The gift of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, to the Royal Welsh Fusileers. A. D.,MDCCCXLVI.Duw a Cadwo y Frenhines.’

THE WELSH FUSILEERS’ GOAT.

“Billy always marches at the head of his battalion, alongside of the drum-major.”

From this account, it would almost seem as though Billy had a share in placing all his officers but onehors de combatat Bunker’s Hill. If such was the case, then he undoubtedly contributed to the American victory on that occasion, and I do not see why a grateful nation should not place his portrait in the Old South. Billy as a corner-stone of American Independence—that is certainly a new side-light upon history!

Of all creatures, the most unfit for war appear to be birds; yetthey, too, have had their share of military vicissitudes and military fame. Geese have shown a genuine vocation for soldiering, and often have been seen waddling over a battle field with derisive composure, as though it were no more than a quarrelsome barnyard. The Romans honored them hardly less than their national eagle, ever after the geese of the Capitol gave the alarm, and enabled them to drive back the Gauls. If Rome was saved, to the geese was the glory!

A modern goose for twenty-three years accompanied an Uhlan regiment, and yet another, Jacob by name, joined the Coldstream Guards in Canada. He had been living in the usual barnyard retirement of fowls when one evening, as he was returning home from a little trip outside, a fox gave chase. All would soon have been over with Jacob had he not spied a sentry near by and taken refuge between his feet. The fox was shot, and henceforth, so long as a sentry was stationed at this place, the grateful bird would join him on his beat.

Some two months later he repaid his preserver by saving the latter’s life, when he in turn was attacked. Flying at the enemy, and beating his wings in their faces, he so disconcerted them that his friend was enabled to kill part and beat off the rest.

A gold collar, with suitable inscription, was his reward; and Jacob, in high favor with all, accompanied the battalion to England. In London he shared its barracks and had a sentry-go of his own, until one luckless day he was run over by a cart and killed.

A great contrast to Jacob, morally, was the raven Ralph, which Thomas Campbell saw in garrison at Chatham. He was one of those clever, swaggering, disreputable, yet kind-hearted rascals who so often enlist; who are always in hot water, and who, nevertheless,make many friends. Ralph had a fluent tongue, and his “Attention, Corporal!” “Turn out, Guard!” and “Sentry go!” often cheated the listeners. His wings had been clipped, but in other respects he enjoyed all the freedom his own reckless habits permitted; and when in an excess of curiosity he fell over into a water-butt and was drowned, there was general lamentation, as though he had been a very upright bird instead of an extremely depraved one.

OLD ABE.

A pleasanter story is that of the little bantam cock which perched on the poop of Lord Rodney’s ship during a great battle with the French, flapping his wings and crowing shrill defiance. It is a pleasure to know that this tiny hero never figured on the dinner-table, but was carefully provided for so long as he lived, by the admiral’s special orders.

There has been no more famous pet in our own military history than Old Abe, the eagle of the Eighth Wisconsin Regiment. From being at first the pet of a company, he rose to be the pet of a regiment, and finally of the nation, being supported at the public expense from the close of the war until his death. He has been photographed and painted; he has had his biography written; has been exhibited for the benefit of the Sanitary Commission, and was an honored guest in Philadelphia at the Centennial. Morelucky in one respect than human celebrities—he was never annoyed by requests for his autograph!

It is tame to say that in war he stood fire like a veteran; in truth, he thrilled with a wild excitement in battle. Its smoke and roar and carnage were his proper element. Borne always next to the regimental colors, his perch was seamed with bullets; and why he was not, the enemy’s sharpshooters could never tell. Sometimes he would soar high above the fighting, and, poised in mid-air like one of Homer’s deities, survey the fearful scene. He shared all the battles of the regiment, and died full of years and honors.

Always beautiful and picturesque in his best estate, the horse is never more so than in connection with war. Here, more than elsewhere, except on the race-course, he has fame and a career. His interests no longer conflict with those of his master; the honor of each reflects credit on the other. As under different circumstances he might be an excellent carriage-horse, so now he is an excellent soldier, and knows “the keen delight of battle with his peers.”

Achilles had his Chestnut, his Dapple, and his Spry; Hector, too, had his favorites—Whitefoot and Firefly; but far more famous and certainly more authentic, is Bucephalus, the horse of Alexander. Plutarch relates the whole beautiful story: how Philip of Macedon paid a great sum for the horse, only to find it quite unmanageable. Just as he was ordering its removal, the young Alexander, who had been watching the futile efforts of the grooms, begged leave to try his hand. By a method similar to Rarey’s—by gentleness, confidence and a firm hand—he won Bucephalus. Henceforth, the two were fast friends and fellow-soldiers. They fought together in Asia, accompanied part of the time at least byPeritas, a great Molossian hound. Once Bucephalus was captured by a party of barbarians, but they wisely surrendered him in time to avert the king’s vengeance.

Wounded in the great battle with Porus, and worn out by age, this noble horse died in India on the banks of the Hydaspes. His monument was a city, built on the spot where he died, and named after him by his master. The pair are commemorated in various ancient works of art, of which the most notable is a great mosaic, now in Naples, representing the battle of Issus.

Next to Bucephalus might be placed the black horse which Cæsar rode during his campaigns in Gaul. It had curiously divided hoofs, whence the augurs predicted good fortune to its rider; and, as though to preserve that fortune for one alone, it would let no one mount but Cæsar. Its after-fate is uncertain—except that the master of the world was not ungrateful, and placed the statue of his good servant before the temple of Venus in Rome. Possibly its history is summed up in the story Suetonius tells—that Cæsar ordered the horses which had served him in Gaul to be consecrated and maintained without labor the rest of their lives. Among them, it is more than likely, was the nameless steed of good augury.

A thousand years later we find the famous Cid in Spain riding Bavieca to victory, and mindful of his horse’s welfare even in the hour of his own death. “When ye bury Bavieca, dig deep!” says Ruy Diaz, “for shameful thing were it that he should be eat by curs.”—“And this good horse lived two years and a half after the death of his master, and then he died also, having lived, according to the history, full forty years.”

Yet another group of centuries, and what equine hero is this, standing firm as a rock, small, but deep-chested, in color a richchestnut, and gazing at us with large velvety eyes?—who but Copenhagen, the war-horse of Wellington!

A grandson of the great racer, Eclipse, he had wonderful powers of endurance, and combined good temper with sagacity. The Duke rode him for eighteen consecutive hours at Waterloo; and then, says he, “thinking how bravely my old horse had carried me all day, I could not help going up to his head, to tell him so by a few caresses. But, hang me, if when I was giving him a slap of approbation on the hind quarters, he did not fling out one of his hind legs with as much vigor as if he had been in stable for a couple of days!”

After the war was over he was taken to Strathfieldsaye, the Duke’s country-seat; and there, an object of general interest, spent the rest of his days in honorable leisure. It is true that this distinction had its drawbacks. Young ladies would entreat the “kind duke” or the “dear duchess” for a little of Copenhagen’s hair to set in a ring; until finally, his neck growing bare of mane, and his tail threatening to become a mere stump, his admirers were forced to content themselves with such stray hairs as might fall. A fine paddock was assigned him, with a summer house at one corner, opening into it by means of a wicket. Here he would come daily to receive bread and gentle petting from the duchess.

With age his eyesight partially failed, and his teeth grew so poor that he could not eat oats unless they were broken up beforehand. He was twenty-seven years old when he died, in 1835. He was buried in his paddock, with military honors, and a small circular railing still marks the spot. Some person—unknown—stole one of his hoofs, which poor memorial is now preserved in the same museum as Bobby, together with the skeleton of Marengo, the horse of Wellington’s great rival, Napoleon.

Various horses have served with credit in America; but more renowned than any—glorious as Roland “who brought good news from Ghent”—is the one that bore Sheridan to Winchester, and enabled him to turn defeat into victory. He was coal-black save for a small white star in the forehead, beautifully formed, and full of fire. From 1862 until the end of the war, he was present in ninety battles, and several times, but not seriously wounded. The climax of his fame was that wild ride when—

“With foam and with dust the black charger was gray.”

It roused a storm of enthusiasm at the time; nor will a memory soon die which like this has received such splendid praise in art and song. So—

“Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man!And when their statues are placed on high,Under the dome of the Union sky—The American soldiers’ temple of fame—There, with the glorious general’s name,Be it said in letters both bold and bright:‘Here is the steed that saved the dayBy carrying Sheridan into the fightFrom Winchester—twenty miles away!’”

“Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man!

And when their statues are placed on high,

Under the dome of the Union sky—

The American soldiers’ temple of fame—

There, with the glorious general’s name,

Be it said in letters both bold and bright:

‘Here is the steed that saved the day

By carrying Sheridan into the fight

From Winchester—twenty miles away!’”

Back to Index Next